


With Night We Banish Sorrow

by ivorytower



Category: Final Fantasy XIV, Homestuck, Transformers, Warcraft, Warhammer 40k, overwatch
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M, So stay tuned, i'm going to be adding stuff to this over the course of the month, it's not a crossover just a bunch of different stories put together, sunguard site write challenge 2016
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-01
Updated: 2016-09-08
Packaged: 2018-07-28 18:25:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 32
Words: 54,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7651984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivorytower/pseuds/ivorytower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the Sunguard Site Write Challenge, I have written one story or story-like prompt for each day of the month of July. Over the month of August, I will edit and post each of those stories to AO3, creating a mixed bag of works. I will post the finale story, from which this fic takes its name, once it's completed and edited. Enjoy!<br/>--<br/>Special thanks to Astralune, Starcunning, and Doomhamster for their kindness and encouragement throughout the process, and of course, all my readers over on tumblr!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Entry 1 - Transformers

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Describe a time when your character felt it was kinder to lie to someone they cared about than to reveal a painful or upsetting truth.  
> Fandom: Transformers (IDW)  
> Summary: Sometimes, there’s a reason why lies need to be told.  
> \--  
> Set in a what-if universe, before the Dark Cybertron arc, but after the Tyrest incident.

My name is Drift. I used to be an Autobot. Before that, I joined the Circle of Light and was trained to be a Knight by one of their acolytes who was named Wing. Before that, I was a Decepticon, one of Megatron’s most ruthless assassins, with kill counts rivaling that of the DJD and the Phase Sixers. Before that… I nearly died, and was rescued by the person who would become Optimus Prime, and Ratchet, his close friend and one of the greatest doctors of all time. Before that… well, I don’t remember very much, but I wasn’t in a good place.

Spiritually dark, as I put it.

Most recently, I was part of an expedition that was searching for the Knights of Cybertron. I provided the ship and the vision, and our leader, Rodimus, provided the crew and the drive. I was never much of a leader. A weird loner that terrified people more than they liked me, but things were supposed to be different with the Autobots. That’s what I was promised and that’s what I believed.

Instead, Prowl convinced Rodimus to take Overlord on board the ship, with two members of our new crew serving as his agents to attach the Phase Sixer’s cell to the bottom of the ship, hiding it from mind and view. I tried to talk Rodimus out of it, but Prowl knows which buttons to press.

‘Don’t you want to prove you’re worthy of being a Prime?’

Rodimus does, of course. He doesn’t think that he is, doesn’t believe it. Despite the fact the Matrix saved his life, bonded to him in a way he describes as being perfect. Despite the fact that he admires Optimus so much that he gave up the Matrix willingly, in the hopes of being able to truly earn it later. I think it proves he’s wise enough to lead, but most people think of him as arrogant. Certainly he hops from one idea to another, certainly he gets bored easily and needs stimulation to keep moving, but none of those are  _ bad  _ things. He just needs focus.

I was teaching him, when it happened.

Overlord broke free. Overlord killed people. Overlord was stopped. Prices were paid and I took the fall because it was the necessary thing to do, if not the right thing. Even seeing Rodimus’ face, even seeing Ratchet’s… not exactly pity, but regret. Seeing anger on the faces of people I thought were friends. Seeing guilt on the faces of those who knew the truth. Seeing shock and surprise in those who’d trusted in me. It’s funny, how those lines laid themselves out, actually.

I went into exile knowing that I’d never see my friends again, never see Rodimus. Knowing that my chances of finding the Circle of Light are almost non-existent without a ship or a crew, but still, I had to try. I had to make the attempt to find my old friends and the people who’d changed my life forever.

Sometimes, moving forward means accepting the past cannot be changed. Not by you, not by anyone. I’d done that, or so I thought.

Which is why when I exited my shuttle, responding to a familiar signal, I was surprised to see Rodimus, former Prime and present Captain of the _Lost Light_ , standing outside.

“Hey,” he said, raising a hand. “Mind if I come in?”

~ * ~

“So, everything’s alright?” Drift repeated, incredulous. “I can go back?” He was seated on the floor, legs folded up as he wrapped his hands around a cube of warmed energon. He’d let Rodimus take the pilot seat, as much in deference to his position so he could look him over.

Rodimus was, as he had always been, beautiful. The former Prime gleamed like firelight, like flame unbound, like a sunset, and deep in his Spark, he loved Rodimus. Not even despite his exile, and not necessarily because of it, but because to not love him was unthinkable. He was popular and proud, and it had been some time since they’d been alone, just the two of them, without anyone to interrupt.

“Yeah, of course,” Rodimus said, shrugging with the whole of his body. “I told them the truth and they accepted it. I mean, some were pretty mad at me -- oh, I thought Ratchet was about to blow a gasket -- but the important part is, you can go back. They want you to come back. Everyone, even Magnus.”

“Well, that’s incredible,” Drift said, expression breaking out into a smile. So it’s all worked out for the best.”

There was another shrug. “Well, you’ve missed some stuff. You’d have loved Tyrest. Especially when Magnus shot him in the back. ‘Entirely deserved’. Badass. You could even have seen your Circle of Light buddies again.”

Drift started, anticipation and worry shivering through his fields. “You found them?! What happened to them, are they alright? What about Dai Atlas?”

For a fraction of a second, Rodimus hesitated, and his fields -- always full of fire and light -- dimmed. “Drift, I--”

“Tell me,” Drift urged. “You can tell me.”

“Most of them are alright, but there was a battle. Dai Atlas didn’t survive. Cyclonus and Whirl said he was incredible, before that. The Circle is joining some of the other expeditions. Thunderclash’s, mostly, but some of them went back to Cybertron. They can’t stay hidden any more, and considering Tyrest’s plan… well.”

“He…” Drift paused, looking upset. “He would have been proud to die for his people, I think. May he join Wing in the Afterspark.”

Rodimus leaned forward, offering his hands. “I’m sorry, for what it’s worth. Really sorry.”

“No, I… he lived a full life,” Drift replied, grasping his hands tightly. “But I’d like to see the others. I had other friends with the Circle, and I’ve missed them all.”

“Of course,” Rodimus promised, his blue optics bright. “But, we can spend some time together first, can’t we? Just the two of us. I’ve missed it. I’ve missed you.”

“I have too,” Drift said, and set his cube aside, rising. “Do you remember when we first got the ship, what we did?”

“You mean spike in the captain’s chair until a full spectral scan would have made it look like a murder scene?” Rodimus grinned, and leaned back a little. “You could say I remember.”

“Well, I think this ship is remarkably fluids-free,” Drift said, moving to him and leaning over, running his hands along Rodimus’ thighs. “But we could fix that.”

“We could,” Rodimus agreed, and tugged at his hips. “We could stand to fix a lot of things.”

“Right now, though, there's only one thing on my mind.” Drift stroked between his legs, tracing delicately along his thighs, and up to his panels. The seams he found were sensitive and Rodimus was already writhing under him. “You're so eager,” he murmured. “Has it been that long?”

“Absence makes the heart grow fonder,” Rodimus vented out. “Definitely worked on my spike.”

“Then open up and let me help with that.”

Rodimus triggered his panels to open, revealing first spike then valve, each a sight to behold. The young mech’s spike was the same red as his body paint, with gleaming yellow and orange flames along the sides. The tip was tapered, though swelled with eagerness, and the whole of it was curved upwards, pressurized though they’d barely started. The underside had treads in a darker shade, and Drift knew from experience that they could hit every sensor node in his valve in a thrust, driving him nearly to overload in an instant.

Below his spike was Rodimus’ node, a delicate nub, pierced through with a gold ring. Not every mech had a node, and some had larger nodes or spikes than others. Drift knelt, kissing it reverently. Rodimus moaned softly, and his spike twitched.

Rodimus’ valve was next, with plush, arousal-darkened lips, so dark red that they were nearly black. From experience, again, he knew there were a pair of calipers within, fluttering with need.

“Drift?” Rodimus murmured, a whine in his voice. “Are you spacing out again?”

“I’m deciding where I want to put my mouth,” he replied. “I think…” Drift kissed the tip of his spike, and then lipped at it. He kept his lip plates loose, and Rodimus thrust up. Drift lifted his legs, slinging them over his shoulders. Rodimus thrust slowly, treads rasping against his tongue. Drift traced his finger along Rodimus’ lips, enjoying the slickness before pushing into him.

Rodimus arched, thrusting deeply, rocking between fingers and mouth. Drift stroked his finger along Rodimus’ sensor nodes, sucking harder with each thrust. The young Prime gripped at the arms of his command throne, moaning desperately as Drift’s pace increased, clinging for all he was worth.

“Drift! Drift!” Rodimus cried out with need. “Primus, please, I'm almost there.”

Drift withdrew his finger, eliciting a whine, and came back with three, bobbing his head with the force of Rodimus’ thrust. Careful, he pressed his thumb against his lover’s node.

Rodimus rocked upward, groaning, desperate. Within moments, his hips arched upwards, his overload coming hard and hot, flooding Drift’s mouth with transfluid. He ingested it easily, running his mouth up and down Rodimus’ spike, massaging against his node.

“I’ve missed you so much. I love you,” Rodimus vented harshly. “We should get Joined.”

“When we make it back to the _Lost Light_ ,” Drift promised. “We can have the ceremony with all of our friends.”

Rodimus drew his legs back, slumping back. “Sure, as soon as we can go back.”

~ * ~

It took the better part of a week for Drift to realize that there was something wrong.

The first few hours had been filled with laughter and warmth and interfacing. Drift had only been in exile for a few months, but his separation from Rodimus had felt like an eternity. They pleasured each other again and again, with fingers and mouths, with spike and valve, with the handful of toys Rodimus had brought with him.

It wasn’t that Rodimus had made no effort to plan their trip back that tipped him off: Drift was just as eager to spend time together in private before others began to interfere. It wasn’t that Rodimus seemed to cling to him even more than usual. In the end, it was looking at the shuttle he’d brought with him.

When Drift had left, Rodimus had a vanity project. Dubbed the ‘Rod Pod’, it had been modelled from his own appearance. Some had considered it to be the pinnacle of arrogance, but Drift had been fond of it. There was no point in noting that the Decepticons had giant, Worldsweeper ships in the shape of the Decepticon symbol, or that Decepticon shuttles were exactly identical to the Autobot ones, except entirely painted in purple to the point they required an entire separate industry to support the sheer level of Megatron’s narcissism.

The shuttle Rodimus had arrived in was one of the small ones, usually used for standard scouting or deployment missions. It wasn’t one of the fastest, nor one of the most stealthy. It didn’t have particularly impressive long-range capabilities either. It nagged at him, and in absence of guidance from a divine source or Swerve, he went to the source.

“Rod?” Drift asked, leaning against the doorway into the washrack. Rodimus was inside, splashing around under the stream of steaming water and cleaning soap. “Can I ask you something?”

“If it’s ‘can I come in?’, the answer is yes,” Rodimus replied, grinning. “What is it?”

“Where’s the Rod Pod?”

“It’s… I...” Rodimus stuttered briefly. “On the _Lost Light_. You know, where it’s supposed to be. Where else  _ would  _ it be?”

“...with you, I’d assume. You love that ship.”

“I did, yeah.” He shrugs. “It’s not a big deal, the shuttle is the one that would work.”

“...but if it’s a short-range shuttle, where’s the _Lost Light?_ You couldn’t have flown here on your own.”

Rodimus reached out, turning off the water, and then faced him, steaming lightly. “Does it really matter? We’re together now.”

Drift frowned at him. “It does if you’re keeping something from me.”

“They… they dropped me off, okay? They’ll be back.”

“Will they?” Drift asked, suddenly uneasy. “Are you really sure?”

“Are you calling me a liar?” Rodimus asked, his voice ratcheting upwards. “I came to find you! Why does it  _ matter  _ where those  _ aft-holes  _ are?!”

“It matters because you sound pretty angry for someone who was sent to rescue me from exile,” Drift replied slowly. “Unless that’s not what happened. Unless you lied to me.”

“I said I would make things right!” Rodimus cried, slamming one hand into the side of the washrack. “I said I would fix things! They didn’t even let me  _ try!” _

“Rodimus…” Drift began, as realization hit him. “Did they send you away?”

“They voted me out of the Captaincy!” Rodimus drew his hand back, staring at it. “After I stopped Tyrest -- Magnus fucking called him on me, you know, to discipline me like a Sparkling -- I promised Magnus I would make amends for all the things I’d screwed up while I was Captain.”

“So you told them the truth? I told you not to. I told you--”

“I thought they’d understand!” Rodimus cried. “It’s not like I went to the Wreckers and told them I wanted to buy an invulnerable psychopath wholesale! I didn’t… I didn’t expect I’d lose.”

“Primus help us all, I  _ told  _ you not to tell them!” Drift yelled, bracing himself against the doorframe. “I told you about my vision! Didn’t you believe me?!”

“Of  _ course  _ I did, but I couldn’t take it any more.” Rodimus’ bright blue optics were wild, darkened by despair and guilt. “I felt like I was being judged, constantly, by the whole crew. I was going to stay. Magnus could lead, but then--”

“What then?” Drift demanded. “What could possibly have compelled you to leave the ship?”

“We met up with Optimus,” Rodimus said, the words dragged from him as though by gravity itself. “I told him what happened.  _ He  _ exiled me.  _ He  _ didn’t believe I’d really learned anything by just stepping down.  _ He  _ told me it was my time to go out and learn something about myself.”

“...so you came to find me, so you didn’t have to,” Drift said slowly. “Is that it?”

“No! No, I-- I love you. I always have, since we first got together. Please, believe me. You can teach me to be better, the way the Circle taught you. The way Wing--”

“Don’t talk to me about Wing,” Drift said coldly, anger moving through every part of his frame. “He’s a real hero, you’re just pretending. You should be on your way to discover the true meaning of Primacy,  _ Hot Rod.” _

“Drift, don’t--”

He pushed off of the frame, turning on heel. Anger, mixed with a kind of sick fear, moved through his system, polluting his fields with negative emotion.  _ He lied to me. He  _ lied  _ to  _ me.  _ What’s wrong with him?  _ Drift walked back to the cockpit, hurried.  _ Maybe I can convince them to take him back, so he can still fulfill my vision. _ He moved to the command throne and sat down, looking over the communications.  _ I’m surprised Optimus was so harsh with him, maybe there’s something he’s not saying, again. _

From behind him, he could hear Rodimus approach, though he said nothing. His fields, a riot of fear and distress, spoke more loudly than he ever could, and Drift didn’t care to listen to anything more he had to say.

His shuttle had not been without its own weaknesses, but the communications array was not one of them. As he scanned for frequencies, he found nothing but static. “What in the--”

“Look at the stars,” Rodimus said softly. He pointed up at the sky, and Drift followed his gaze. It was curiously, almost menacingly black. “They’re going out.”

“How is that possible?” Drift asked. “What’s happening?”

“I don’t know,” Rodimus said. “...but I don’t think it’s anything good. Drift, if this is-- I mean, I’m sorry. I made a bad call.”

“I’m sorry too,” Drift said simply. “I’m sorry too.”

~ * ~

“Do it,” Tyrest, former Lord Justice, former Autobot, stated coldly. “Do it and erase your sin as you promised.”

Minimus Ambus, stripped from his armour once again and chained down, refused to give him the satisfaction of a reply. He felt the blaster press against the back of his head, nudging him until his face was flush against the deck.

“No, don’t do this,” Skids begged. “Getaway, no! He tried to kill you!”

“Wholly deserved,” the escapologist said coldly, and pulled the trigger. The former Enforcer’s head exploded, a mess of machine parts and energon. Swerve was messily, violently ill, and Lockdown shook him a little.

“Don’t give up the Spark yet, Metallurgist,” the bounty hunter chided. “We still need you to do some work on our pal Pharma. He’s a good doctor, but sometimes, well, he loses his head.”

“Ratchet and First Aid were the doctors,” Swerve babbled. “I’m a bartender, just a bartender. I mix things. I don’t--”

“Boss,” Atomizer interrupted, standing at the console. “You might want to come see this.”

“What is it?” Tyrest asked, a hint of impatience to his voice. “I’m working.”

“Well, Chief Justice,” Atomizer said, pointing out the  _ Lost Light’s _ viewport. “Stars are going out.”

“That’s impossible,” Tyrest snapped. “We’re in space. There are no clouds to cover the sky here.”

“The stars aren’t being covered,” Brainstorm remarked quietly. The self-proclaimed genius was bound in stasis cuffs so tightly he could barely move his head. “They’re being extinguished. Trust me, I have an instinct for these things.”

“How is that possible?” Tyrest demanded, stomping over to the console and jabbing at the scanning equipment. “What’s doing it?”

“If I had to make an educated guess,” Brainstorm remarked, shuttering his optics, “it’s something that’s a hell of a lot more dangerous than you.”

Tyrest’s last act was to spin on heel and, using his staff, impaled Brainstorm squarely through his Spark.

“Shut up,  _ drone.” _

~ * ~

The Dead Universe was killing them, and when it came, it came fast. Cyclonus was coughing up black sludge, like a human chainsmoker fighting for air. Hardhead was dead, disintegrated outside of the safety of his forcefield. Nightbeat looked on, threats and regrets offered in identical tones of voice.

When Nova Prime beat the living Spark out of Orion Pax, Primus himself wept that one of his chosen would not, could not, fight back against the despair that had engulfed his Spark.

On Cybertron, the last star went dead, and with it, Shockwave’s eternity had only just begun.

\--

End


	2. Entry 2 - Homestuck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Write a monologue or letter addressed from one character to someone they love. In this love poem in prose, the love being described can be a metaphor for a larger issue (as scholars interpret the biblical Song of Songs), but it can also simply be about an overwhelming love. The whole of this piece of prose is an attempt to convince the recipient that they are loved.  
> Fandom: Homestuck  
> Summary: Dirk Strider has something to say, and he isn’t all that succinct about it.  
> \--  
> I continue to be absolute portalshipping trash.

\-- timeausTestified [TT] is pestering gutsyGumshoe [GG]! --

TT: Jane, are you there?

\-- gutsyGumshoe [GG] has gone idle! --

TT: It would seem not.  
TT: I know that I’m not always the easiest person to get along with.  
TT: I know I’m frustrating, that my language is convoluted.  
TT: That my mastery of the ironic arts is such that my manner of communication is obtuse to the point I confuse even myself, or at least, my Auto-Responder does.  
TT: ...that I intended to take a different tack with this, and now I’m talking about me.  
TT: What I wanted to talk about -- or who, I should say -- is you.  
TT: I’ve admired you for such a long time. I find you to be a kind person, and a thoughtful one.  
TT: I know that you didn’t believe Roxy for a long time, but I appreciate the fact that you’re willing to be speculative about some of the truly ridiculous bullshit that we tend to lay before your crimson-shod feet.  
TT: I appreciate that you’re curious, and are willing to entertain my lengthy rants, my works of self-indulgent catharsis when they’re presented to you as a gift.  
TT: That you’re patient, that you’re clever, that you’re fun.  
TT: I enjoy your independence and watching you grow as a person and as a Player.  
TT: I’ll admit that I manipulated you, and it’s incredible how well you fought back against that.  
TT: I don’t deserve the regard you’ve given me in return, how much kindness you’ve done me despite all of that.  
TT: ...but you’ve given that to me, so I’m grateful for that too.  
TT: But none of these things should really surprise me, because you’re Jane Crocker. Heiress to the Batterwitch’s legacy, and the one capable of turning it on its head.  
TT: A servant of the people instead of stealing everything from them, even life, even hope.  
TT: You took something that my time had seen only as a curse and made it a blessing, the pinnacle of compassion and skill and talent.  
TT: Everything that you are and everything that you can be is special and precious.  
TT: So, all that being said, there’s something I wanted to say.  
TT: Jane. I. 

\-- gutsyGumshoe [GG] is no longer idle! --

GG: Dirk? Oh, my goodness.  
GG: I love you too.

End


	3. Entry 3 - WH40K

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: A wasp called the tarantula hawk reproduces by paralyzing tarantulas and laying its eggs into their bodies. When the larvae hatch, they devour the still living spider from the inside out. Isn’t that fucked up? Write a short story about how fucked up that is.  
> Fandom: WH40K (Deathwatch)  
> Summary: Tyranids are their own special kind of terrifying, especially when combined with certain unusual types of animals.  
> \--  
> I have a story about a Deathwatch team in the works, though I haven't quite managed to get anywhere with it, these are the people from the team.

“Well, that’s the most horrifying thing I’ve ever seen,” Gwen remarked, trying not be ill. She nudged at the shredded insect with the tip of her heavy flamer, and Anik pushed the nozzle back, giving her a disapproving frown. “Sorry,  _ angakkuq,”  _ the Sororitas said. “But surely the proper method of disposing of it is fire.”

“I don’t disagree,” the Imperial Fist replied, prodding gently at the body with one gauntlet. “But not in the middle of an investigation. Only at the end.”

“The rate at which the xeno grows and evolves is always astounding,” Indira added, the black of her power armour nearly invisible in the dark corner she was using to act as lookout. She kept her bolt pistol cradled against her chest, and focused all her will to sense for the mindless swarm. “But this is worthy of Baal itself.”

“We have creatures like that on Espandor,” Tomas murmured, from the other side of the clearing, in his own lookout position. “Tarantula Hawks we call them, though they’re neither tarantulas nor hawks. They’re wasps, insects that use living tarantulas as nests for their eggs, and then, after they hatch, food for the young.”

“Wasps, you say?” Lynda remarked, the Space Wolf rising from her own crouch. “If that follows, shouldn’t we be looking for flyers?”

For a moment, the entire Deathwatch team was silent, processing the remark. Then with prodigious speed, there was movement. Gwen torched the body with extreme prejudice and righteous fury. Indira and Tomas pointed their weapons upwards, watching the skies for any sign of the newly-hatched creatures.

Senses heightened by the length and breadth of Imperial science strained, and if one was very quiet, and the sound of a dozen heartbeats didn’t distract the listener, they could hear it, the drone of buzzing wings.

“Brace yourselves…” Tomas warned. “If we miss, it’s really going to  _ sting.” _

Indira rolled her eyes, and sighted with her bolt pistol. These were a smaller xenos-breed of tyranid, though considering they were patterned after wasps they were enormous: approximately an arm’s length in size, with stingers the span of a hand, dozens of them swooped down at the Kill-Team. Tomas’ bolter had a longer range than the rest of the team’s pistols, so his shots barked out a steady rapport, tearing through two of them. Heartbeats later, the rest of them fired. Three dropped, spinning from the sky. Then two, then four.

“Duck and cover!” Gwen called, bracing her heavy flamer. Aimed towards the sky, Lynda and Anik ducked down, letting jets of prometheum spray over them, setting a dozen of the creatures alight. “By the God-Emperor and the Silver Saint!”

“Good job,” Indira said, picking off one, then another. “But I don’t suppose you could do that some more.”

“Of course,” the Sororita said brightly. “Until the cannister runs out.”

“Then you should be careful not to  _ fire  _ at will,” Tomas said, firing again. “Even if you are a  _ hot  _ shot.”

“I’m going to kick your arse straight back to Sigurd,” Anik growled, swinging his crozius hard, striking at another of the tyranids. “ _ Focus,  _ Ultramarine.”

“Everyone’s a critic,” Tomas muttered. “That’s cruel. It stings.”

“Stop,” Indira warned.

“I didn’t even mean--”

“I mean, stop firing, they’re dead,” she snapped. “Except…” She looked around, and fired at the retreating wasp, though the shot went wide. “Damn it all, if we have to hunt it down--”

Hunting it down could mean days of searching, or even weeks. Hunting it down could mean murdered civilians, murdered cattle, a precursor to a major attack.  _ If I can just…  _ Indira drew on her psychic gift, her gift from Sanguinius and the Emperor, and murmured a soft prayer to the Lord of Death himself to guide her aim, wherever he might be.

Beside her, Lynda roared, springing up from where she was crouched. She drew the knife she held in her belt-sheath and gripped it bare-handed by the blade. With one smooth motion, the assault marine threw the knife and it soared through the air, impaling the tyranid with such force that it continued its arc, then fell in two pieces.

“Got it.”

“Knife shot,” Tomas remarked, and this time, Indira didn’t bother to chastise the tactical marine for his word play. “Let’s go tell Inquisitor Ivodrigo.”

 

End

 


	4. Entry 4 - Transformers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Write a short biography of your character in the style of a Homestuck introduction page.  
> Fandom: Transformers  
> \--  
> I have a fair number of Transformers OCs, but these are the ones that have the most backstory put into them.

_Sunbeam (Witch of Light)_

Your name is SUNBEAM and you are the WITCH OF LIGHT. You are a FORGED mech, emerging from the WELL OF ALL-SPARKS only a short period of time before the WAR that would engulf CYBERTRON, your homeworld, and much of the known GALAXY. You were identified quickly by the CARETAKERS as a PSYCHIC, possessing the ability to BEND LIGHT and create various SHAPES. You love light, as well as COLOUR, and create various ART PIECES out of both. You love to PAINT and create SCULPTURES.

Your good friend is a DRONE named PIXEL whom you were given to OWN when you went to school in IACON, Cybertron’s CAPITAL CITY. Your distress was such that it led you to join an ANTI-SLAVERY MOVEMENT that was quickly becoming well known called the DECEPTICONS. Their leader, MEGATRON, convinced you that he could CHANGE THE WORLD. You fell deeply in love with both Megatron and his ideology, and used your ARTWORK to influence others, garnering the attention of many, including ORION PAX – a humble police officer – and SENTINEL, the PRIME. Sentinel claimed you for his own, but you would not remain so.

You are not COMBAT CAPABLE and have no NATURAL WEAPONS, but your psychic powers allow you limited OFFENSIVE capabilities (such as flashes of light) and powerful DEFENSIVE abilities (like creating impenetrable shields of light), but your greatest gift is your ability to PERSUADE people of things. You’re a gifted ORATOR and believe DEEPLY AND SINCERELY in the DECEPTICON CAUSE. Anything that would cause you to BREAK FAITH with its leader would have to be TRULY AWFUL.

You are a GOLD mech with customized paint work and have door wings, and your ALT MODE is that of a stylish, attractive FOUR WHEELED GROUND VEHICLE, commonly referred to as a CAR. Your callsign is prismPower and your writing style Is a little bit whimsical~ but not difficult to follow~

_Soundshatter (Knight of Void)_

Your name is SOUNDSHATTER and you are a KNIGHT OF VOID. You were FORGED in the WELL OF ALL-SPARKS but you do not live on CYBERTRON. Instead, you live on a planet that was once the BODY of an EVIL GOD. You are in fact the member of a NEUTRAL ORGANIZATION that helped TAKE THAT GOD DOWN, though it will never TRULY DIE. You are a part of the BLACK GOD’S GUARD and you fight VOID BORN.

You have a number of INTERESTS, such as READING EMBARRASSING LESBIAN POETRY, PRAYING, MEDITATING, and sometimes FLYING VERY FAST. You are also an EXPERT MARTIAL ARTIST who likes to PUNCH ABOVE THEIR WEIGHT CLASS. This is important considering that you hunt MONSTERS and PROTECT OTHERS.

Like all of the other members of your order, you are PSYCHIC, but in this case, you can STUN with the power of your SCREAM, and have extra senses that allow you to TRACK OBJECTS IN COMPLETE DARKNESS and BANISH EVIL. Your signature weapons are LARGE WAR FANS, in the manner of your PATRON, AUGMENTUS PRIME. She and SOLUS, her COJUNX, are the founders of your order, and their relationship the IDEAL to which you ASPIRE one day. Perhaps with your BODYGUARD, or perhaps love will come from an UNEXPECTED SOURCE.

You are a FLYER and would have lived in VOS if you had not been recruited by the ORDER. Your ALT-MODE is that of a STEALTH FIGHTER JET and you fly VERY VERY FAST. You are primarily BLACK, with DARK GREEN and LIGHT BLUE highlighting. Your callsign is sonicBoom and your writing style is a bit stilted and formal, and is sometimes predisposed towards poetry.

_Siren (Maid of Blood)_

Your name is SIREN and you are the MAID OF BLOOD. You were CONSTRUCTED COLD as a D-Class BOMBER and you are a DRONE. You were CREATED to prosecute a WAR on distant soil, and as such, are considered LARGELY DISPOSABLE. You and your FELLOW DRONES are virtually IDENTICAL, save for your DESIGNATION NUMBER which you have in place of a NAME. You named yourself, however, because you like the noise an AIR RAID SIREN makes.

Like many drones, you joined the DECEPTICONS because you believed their LEADER would care for his FOLLOWERS. Despite his HATRED for RELIGION, people follow him with a CULT-LIKE DEVOTION which may prove to be TOXIC in the end. You yourself are LOYAL but you believe in CARING FOR OTHERS and ESTABLISHING STRONG RELATIONSHIPS. You are the LEADER of your SQUAD and COORDINATE THEIR EFFORTS, as well as SEEING TO THEIR WELL-BEING. You are FRIENDLY if not often CRASS, and you like to BUMP PEOPLE WITH YOUR BIG HIPS. You love your hips. They’re great.

Your INTERESTS are harder to identify, because DRONES are offered very limited forms of entertainment, but you do like to FLY, have WILD SEX with ATTRACTIVE SEEKERS, and YELL AT STUPID PEOPLE WHO ARE STUPID AND ALSO MEAN.

You are, as noted, a FLYER, who is LAVENDER PURPLE and a bit THICK AROUND THE WAIST, with DARK GREY flying lines. Your callsign airRaid and your writing style is somewhat informal, and has something of a drawl to it.

_Wildcat (Rogue of Rage)_

Your name is WILDCAT and you are the ROGUE OF RAGE. You were FORGED by the WELL OF ALL-SPARKS but there was something WRONG with you from your creation. Your FRAME is too big for your SPARK, which caused you NO END OF TROUBLE when you were younger. As you were not identified as BEING IN ANY WAY SPECIAL OR PSYCHIC, and your VEHICLE MODE lent you towards CONSTRUCTION, that was were you were ASSIGNED by the FUNCTIONIST GOVERNMENT that dominated CYBERTRON in your YOUTH.

You engaged in a number of CRIMES to deal with the DEFECT in your frame. This caused you to be ARRESTED by the ENFORCERS and sent to JAIL. This, in turn, caused you to become UNEMPLOYED. Further CRIMINAL ACTIVITY led to you selling yourself as a GLADIATOR to fight in the PITS OF KAON for energon. It was there you met MEGATRON, leader of the DECEPTICON MOVEMENT, and some OTHERS who would prove CRUCIAL to the movement’s SUCCESS. You and Megatron became CLOSE FRIENDS despite your reluctance to LEAD. Instead, you remained PRACTICAL and LEVEL-HEADED, and good at KEEPING UP MORALE IN OTHERS.

You have a number of INTERESTS, including FIGHTING, DIGGING HOLES, and MAKING PUNS. Puns are supposed to be a LOW-BROW form of humour, but that’s okay, because you’re wpretty low-brow yourself. You also have a not-unreasonable fondness for ATTRACTIVE RACE CARS, low-grade ENERGON, watching SPORTS, and CUDDLING. Hey, there’s nothing wrong with a good cuddle.

Your ALT-MODE is a BACKHOE, and you are a kind of BEAT-UP ORANGE and BROWN. You are LARGE and a bit DINGED UP but you keep on going. Your callsign is hoedowntheFort and yah speak like yah type, with a kinda drawl ‘n such.

_Igneous (Page of Mind)_

Your name is IGNEOUS and you are the PAGE OF MIND. You were FORGED by the WELL of ALL-SPARKS and your function is GEOLOGIST. You are CURIOUS and you have the SPARK of an EXPLORER. As it stands, you are a SCIENTIST, THIRD-GRADE, so not one of the GREAT ONES or a ONE PERCENTER, but you’re PRETTY DARN SMART. Unfortunately, your SPIRIT OF ADVENTURE wound up with you getting CAPTURED by a DECEPTICON named OBSIDIAN. Hopefully, you will be FREE OF HIM soon, either by YOUR OWN hand or SOMEONE ELSE’S.

You have a number of INTERESTS, including ROCKS AND MINERALS, WATCHING DOCUMENTARIES, and RARE AND HIGH GRADE ENERGON. You also like LONG WALKS, GARDENS, and BEING UNDERGROUND. You are something of an ADORABLE NERD, which makes you VULNERABLE to those who want to TAKE ADVANTAGE OF YOU, but you also have your PROTECTORS.

Your ALT-MODE is a SEISMOGRAPH, and you are GREEN with a pattern of BLACK, BROWN, and SAND. You are SLENDER though not SMALL, a MINI-BOT by WEIGHT but not HEIGHT. You tend to be very PROPER and a little FORMAL, and sound SMART when you speak. Your callsign is shakerattleandRoll and your writing style might be qualified as ‘British’ if such a thing existed on Cybertron,, which it does not. That’s pure poppycock!


	5. Entry 5 - Overwatch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: What are the most meaningful relationships in your character’s life? Who, or what, are they with, and how does your character show it?  
> Fandom: Overwatch  
> Summary: The only thing Amelie Lacroix loves more than ballet is sharing it with someone special.  
> \--  
> This is the first of the pieces to have significant editing, primarily adding in a sex scene between Amelie and Angela which I didn't wind up writing in the original version due to time constraints. It's included now, along with various accents, some fixes to the french, and general improvements. I want to note that there is no cheating in this story. Everything is done with awareness, consent, and encouragement. I've also added footnotes translating some of the less obvious french. My apologies to people who actually speak french. I'm very sorry.

Amélie worked in her garden, tending to her roses. She loved them dearly, the children she wanted, step-siblings to the projects she developed for Blackwatch in an effort to counter global terrorism. Those children were sometimes, though not always, violent. The roses, by contrast, in their hues of deep red and pale pink, white and yellow and occasionally blue or purple if she felt extravagant, were always peaceful.

“I love coming out to the garden,” her husband remarked, closing the door behind him. “Because all of the beautiful roses are in bloom all year round. Incroyable [1] .”

“Bonjour, mon amour [2] ,” Amélie murmured, smiling. “You flatter me.”

“Hardly,” Gérard replied, going to her and kissing her briefly. “How are they?”

“They’re well enough,” Amélie replied. “I don’t believe I’ll need to replace any of them this year.” Glancing up, she saw the broad smile on her husband’s face, the twinkle in his eye. “Though, since you’re here, I have something to ask of you.”

“No,” Gérard replied immediately, and she started, snapping the leaf from one of the rose plants.

_ Does he know already?  _ Amélie wondered, suddenly worried.  _ Is he angry with me? Upset-- _

“My love, it was a joke,” Gérard said hastily, seeing the stricken look on her face. “C’était une blague [3] . Please, ask me your question so that you cease to worry.”

“A joke, of course,” she murmured to herself. “That makes sense. The question I ask is… what do you think of Doctor Ziegler?”

“She is a talented woman, accomplished and caring. She manages both of her suitors quite well,” Gérard said. “And, she is also quite lovely, as you have likely noticed.”

“...was it that obvious?” Amélie’s resolve faltered, and she looked down at her hands.

Gérard immediately reached for her hand and guided her to her feet, leading her to an ornate, painted iron chair and sat her down. Gérard moved around the small table, and sat in the other chair. The set had been acquired from a cafe undergoing heavy renovation, and they had used it for intimate dinners in the past. Amélie dared to look up, and saw her husband smiling gently.

“Only a little,” he replied. “I have noticed the way she turns heads, including yours. Do you feel disturbed about this? Upset?”

“No, not… precisely,” Amélie said. “You’re right, she is a beautiful woman, talented and kind… and, I suspect, open-minded about certain kinds of relationships. It’s not only that she loves Jack and Gabriel, it’s that she loves each of them, and both of them together. As I love you, but would be interested in something less professional and more intimate than our current relationship.”

“Ah, I see,” Gérard said, and considered. “And you come to me to ask… permission?”

“In a sense. I would never be untrue to you,” Amélie insisted. “I love you above all others, le rose de mon coeur [4] . I would die sooner than I would break your heart. It’s only… there have been others, before we were married. You know that.”

“I do,” Gérard agreed. “It did not bother me. It’s unseemly to shame someone for their loves, past or future. I think… I think it might bother me if it were Morrison or Reyes, because then I would have to ask what it was that they had that I lacked, but for our Ange, I am less concerned. There are things I will never be that the good doctor is. I understand, and I hope that she will see you for the beautiful rose that I do.”

Amélie ducked her head, cheeks flushing. “You’re too kind to me, mon amour, to say such things and so sweetly.”

“Yes, parce que je t’aime [5] . We should run away together and marry.”

“We  _ are  _ married,” she noted, but leaned forward to kiss him, and rubbed her nose against his affectionately. “Swan Lake has returned to the great stage, and I hoped to ask her to join me. Do you think she’ll like it?”

“Your favourite production? I would be surprised if she didn’t,” Gérard replied, and kissed her nose. “After all, she watched that dreadful, boring American creation without complaint. Surely she will enjoy the ballet.”

“Baseball, mon amour,” Amélie corrected gently, and considered her approach. “It’s called baseball.”

Base  _ bah,”   _ was her husband’s only reply.

~ * ~

It took two days for Amélie to decide exactly how to approach Angela Ziegler. She was often busy, deeply immersed in her nanobiotics work, and when she wasn’t busy with her job, she was with Jack Morrison, Gabriel Reyes, or both.

At the moment, she was in conversation with the Strike Commander, standing near one of the Point-de-Piste Base’s windows. The blinds had been opened, and the sun caught the other woman’s golden-blonde hair, the escaping strands encircling her head like a halo.

_ Elle est belle, mon ange _ _ [6] _ _ ,  _ Amélie mused, leaning her chin on one hand. Involuntarily, a wistful sigh escaped her lips.

She heard a chuckle from behind her, and straightened awkwardly. A warm, dark hand rested on her shoulder, and she glanced up at Gabriel Reyes. “I think she does it on purpose, just for that image. It’s amazing we ever get anything done.”

“I would think we would be professional at work at all times,” Amélie said, a little stiffly. “I certainly am.”

“This isn’t a lecture, Am. If you want to talk to her, just ask. At worst, schedule an appointment.” Reyes shrugged. “I think she’ll make time to talk to you.”

Amélie narrowed her gaze. “You know something. Who told you?”

“I’m an Intelligence guy. I know some things.” He patted her shoulder and pulled back. “And you never struck me as the type to sigh at Jack.”

“No, that’s your job,” she replied tartly, and then softened. “You truly think so?”

“I do,” Reyes confirmed, and added, “try daffodils. She likes yellow.”

“Daffodils,” Amélie repeated. “I’ll remember.”

The Blackwatch leader nodded to her, and walked towards Morrison and Doctor Ziegler. His words were too low for Amélie to hear, but only two of the trio walked off, leaving Angela to stand in the sunlight.

A moment later, the doctor turned her and smiled. Automatically, Amélie smiled back. Angela walked towards her, and said, “perhaps we could talk in my office?”

“I would like that,” Amélie said. “It is a… private matter that I’d like to discuss. A personal one.”

Doctor Ziegler’s smile became a grin, and Amélie flushed.

The walk to Angela’s office wasn’t particularly long one, though it felt like an eternity as Amélie walked by her side, tongue-tied. Overwatch’s CMO seemed to have little to say in return, simply glancing around the simple walls of the facility.

“It’s not much,” Amélie admitted, breaking the silence. “It’s not Gibraltar.”

“Gibraltar has its own faults,” Angela said. “It’s so large, the halls echo, even with people inside. Some days, it feels more like a tomb than a military installation.”

“Unfortunate, but you’re more than welcome to stay here,” Amélie replied, and when the doctor looked over at her, she blushed. “I mean, as long as you need to be here.”  _ Mon Dieu, I sound like a stuttering child. _

“I’m glad to be welcome,” was the only reply as they came to her office door and unlocked it.  

While both Doctor Ziegler and Commander Morrison had offices at Point-de-Piste, neither was used particularly often, considering their constant need to move from place to place to deal with problems as they came. The office was, therefore, bare, bereft of the warmth of her Gibraltar office, or the intimacy of her old practice in Switzerland. She held the door open, allowing Amélie to enter first, before closing the door behind her and walking to her desk to sit down.

_ Perhaps this was a mistake,  _ Amélie fretted.  _ I feel so nervous. _

“Amélie,” Angela began, gentle. “Would you like a candy?”

“I-- what?”

“Well, in my experience, people are more relaxed when offered something sweet,” Doctor Ziegler began. “And having been in your acquaintance for some time, I can’t imagine anyone more sweet than you, but a candy would do to start.”

Warmth suffused Amélie, from her cheeks to the tips of her toes, and she couldn’t help but smile. “You are too kind, like Gérard. He always pays me such kind compliments.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Angela said. “He’s… a good man, isn’t he? Kind, and understanding.”

“He is, yes,” Amélie agreed. “So kind that, when presented with a particular… interest of mine, he encourages me to embrace it, rather than getting angry.”

“It’s only right,” Angela said, and rested her palms on the desk, sliding her hands forward a little. “It’s important to support your partner, to listen to what they have to say.”

“It is,” Amélie agreed. “I would… appreciate a receptive audience to my thoughts and my interests.”

“And you do have a number of them, as I recall,” Angela said. “You garden, don’t you? Your roses, I’ve seen pictures.”

“Yes, my little green children.” Amélie smiled. “I’m also fond of ballet. I was fascinated by it in my childhood, but it isn’t easy on the body, or the mind.”

“I’m familiar with it. Swan Lake, comes to mind. I’ve never seen a performance, but I’d like to.” Angela’s hands inched closer, and she raised an eyebrow.

“It’s very fortunate, then, that I have tickets to see Swan Lake,” Amélie said. “Gérard has seen it so many times, and if you haven’t seen it, I would love to see it with someone watching it for the first time.”

“And I,” Angela replied, “would love to see it with fresh eyes for the first time with someone who loves Swan Lake so dearly.” Her lips quirked into a smile. “So, is it a date?”

Amélie reached out, and slid her fingers over Doctor Ziegler’s, finding them as warm and steady as they looked. “It is a date.”

~ * ~

Opera Bastille was a beautiful place. Grand and almost breathtaking. Amélie loved it dearly, the press of people, clutching at their programs and their gloves, dressed in their most beautiful gowns and suits. Their eyes were all alight with enthusiasm, talking about the performance to come, or later, when it was over, the performance that had been.

_ Please, God and all His saints, let her show up tonight. _ Amélie stood by one of the pillars, anxious and trying not to show it. She had confirmed their meeting every day that week, and at this point, both Commanders were able to answer in the affirmative that Angela would be attending.

Emergency on-call services had been placed on someone else’s shoulders. Amélie had been given leave to go home early, so she had time to dress herself and prepare.

Gérard had promised her that she looked stunning, and made mention of joining Morrison and Reyes to watch Euro-Cup Football, or as the Americans insisted on calling it, Soccer.

That left Amélie to wait in a dress that was dark, wine red and glittering in the Opera’s lights, wondering if the neckline was too low, if the slit on the right side was too high, if she looked like a fool holding a bouquet of daffodils in her arms as though they might escape at any moment.

“Gabriel told you I liked daffodils, didn’t he?” Angela murmured, and Amélie bit back a curse that would have seen her thrown from the opera house. “Sorry for sneaking up on you, you seemed lost in thought.”

“It’s… of no concern,” Amélie said, trying to calm her racing heart, She looked past the flowers, and found herself breathless instead: Angela had worn a suit, dark navy and cut well for her figure. Amélie had imagined her in white, in a dress that made her look as angelic as her Angel-Armour, but instead, she reminded her very much of Jack Morrison. “You look beautiful.”

“Thank you, and so do you,” Angela said. “And I  _ do  _ like daffodils. I understand you prefer roses, so I…” She held out a box. “Here, this is for you.”

The box was clear, and reminded Amélie very much of a corsage box she’d seen from American media. It was a red rose, nestled against a handful of baby’s breath. It seemed both delicate and resilient, undoubtedly the work of professional botanists and not amateur gardeners.

“It’s perfect,” Amélie said, finally. “Let’s exchange.”

It took some doing, to pass the almost absurdly large bouquet and to take the box, but they managed. Angela selected one of the daffodils, trimmed it, and affixed it in the buttonhole of her lapel. Amélie was at a loss where to put her rose, and in the end, hooked it against the lowest point of her neckline, drawing attention to how far down it dipped.

“A good choice,” Angela said, her gaze dropping down, and this time, Amélie didn’t blush, instead letting the warmth of that look suffuse her. Doctor Ziegler offered Amélie her arm, which she took. “Let’s go inside.”

Amélie had not obtained box seats, preferring to be on the floor, near the middle-back of the theatre. Box seats were for those wealthier than she, and weren’t meant for entertainment. Too close, and it would feel like having one’s nose pressed against the stage. Too far back, and it would be hard to enjoy. Here, just here, was the perfect location for a new person, a kindred spirit, to see something special for the first time.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Amélie murmured. “This is… important to me. Precious. Like an heirloom that lives, breathes, and evolves over time.”

“I understand,” Angela said. “I think everyone has something like that, something that matters so much to them that it’s a part of their very soul.” Shifting a little, she took one of Amélie’s hands, entwining their fingers together. Reflexively, Amélie leaned her head against Angela’s shoulder. “Thank you for sharing that part of yourself with me.”

“Thank you for cherishing it, and keeping it safe.”

During the ballet, Amélie found herself watching more of Angela’s expressions that the dancing itself. It wasn’t as though she hadn’t memorized every movement, every graceful turn. Every musical note was part of a greater tapestry of movement and emotion that spoke to her as few other things did. Knowing all of that, it made it easier to watch Angela’s features, her delight, concern, and distress, depending on each section of the performance. Each reaction was exactly as she had hoped, and it warmed her to the very depths of her soul.

When it was over, she didn’t rise as some did. Instead, Amélie remained in place, enjoying the final overture as people moved from their seats, talking excitedly.

“What did you think?” Amélie asked, just as Angela turned her head to speak.

“That was incredible, there was so much emotion. It was like Odette was truly  _ flying,  _ and I--”

They found themselves nose to nose, so close they could feel each other breathe. Seizing the moment, Amélie leaned in, kissing Angela softly. When their lips brushed, Angela made a noise, and then leaned in, squeezing Amélie’s hand. For a moment, there was nothing but each other, movement and flight and triumph swelling with the music.

“Well,” Angela murmured. “That was incredible too.”

“Gérard is out for the evening,” Amélie said, bold. “Will you come with me back to my home?”

“Funny, I think Jack and Gabriel are busy too,” Angela said softly. “At the hotel room. So I think we have the evening to ourselves.”

Amélie felt something brush against her neck, and found it was the petals of the daffodil that had spent the evening in Angela’s lapel.

She grinned.

~ * ~

The trip back towards the Lacroix residence was a whirlwind. Outside the Bastille, Angela flagged down a taxi with one hand, the other warm and firm in Amélie’s own. Amélie called out the address as they tumbled into the backseat. The driver’s expression, caught in the rear view mirror seemed amused, though unsurprised.

The second kiss was warm and sweet, and the third, eager as their hands that would just as soon be pulling aside clothing scrambled to fasten safety belts.

_ I feel as though drunk, but there has been no champagne, no drinks to speak of,  _ she thought giddily.  _ Just a beautiful woman so close at hand, to touch and taste. _

“Patience, Aimée,” Angela murmured. “We’ll be there soon.”

“You’ve already come up with a pet name for me?” Amélie asked, amazed. “I love it.”

“It was Gabriel’s suggestion. We worked at it.” Angela stroked her fingers along the skin just above the neckline that had not so much plunged and swan-dived to Amélie’s navel. “You’re beautiful, you know that?”

“As are you,” Amélie whispered into the shell of the doctor’s ear. “You’re wearing so much clothing, I expected a dress.”

“I prefer pants,” the doctor confessed. “Especially the right person to--”

The taxi driver cleared her throat, and Angela drew back. “...save it for the house, obviously.”

“For now, yes.” Amélie sat back, but kept her fingers laced through Angela’s, rubbing the side of her thumb along the warmth of the doctor’s hand.

The city was busy, and the ride slow. The chatter of voices was audible, even in traffic, and the time it took to get to the Lacroix’s small, comfortable home was enough to cool her passion, but only a little. Only a look at Angela, for one of them to catch the other’s gaze and hold it until smouldering desire inflamed once more.

_ If I’m not careful, I’m going to turn into a dreadful romance novel, with all of the smouldering and flames,  _ Amélie chided herself.  _ Still, if she’s having second thoughts… _

Angela offered her credit card to the driver, who swiped it and handed the machine back so that the doctor could key in her code, then passed it back. The woman raised an eyebrow as she saw the total, but offered only a brief thanks before Angela opened the door, and moved around to the other side to open Amélie’s door.

“Charming,” she murmured, taking the hand Angela offered a moment later. “Thank you.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” the doctor said. “There’s a second reason I wanted to wear the suit. I didn’t want to spoil the surprise.”

“Surprise?” Amélie repeated, and walked to the door to open it. No sooner was the door ajar then Angela swept her into her arms. “Mon Dieu! Mon ange, I had no idea you were so strong.”

“This is going to last about three minutes,” Angela murmured. “Tuck in.”

Amélie did as she was bid, and Angela carried her across the threshold, into the house, closing the door behind her with one food. “Bedroom?”

“Upstairs, first on the left,” Amélie said. “Are you alright? Am I too heavy?”

“I’m a doctor, not a weightlifter, but Jack and Gabriel have done this for me often enough, I thought I should make the effort.” Angela made for the stairs, a look of steely determination on her face that Amélie imagined had carried her through medical school at a prodigious rate. The doctor was gasping by the time she arrived at the doorway, and was forced to set Amélie down.

“Here, let me help you,” she murmured. “Come, come.” She grasped Angela’s hand, and led her into the bedroom. She turned on the lights, adjusting them so they were low, barely above a candle’s flicker. The blankets had been turned down, awaiting the pair of them, and a handful of yellow rosepetals had been sprinkled onto the quilt and pillows.

“That’s… very sweet,” Angela said, and Amélie laughed softly.

“Gérard is doing his part too, I see.” She closed the door, and reached for Angela’s hand. “Now, where were we..?”

“Here, I think.” The doctor cupped her cheek and kissed her. As fourth kisses went, it was a good one, long and slow. Amélie tugged Angela’s hands closer, guiding them to rest flat against her bare stomach. Immediately, Angela stroked her fingers down, brushing against the rose as the flower crumbled to pieces, shedding petals onto the floor.

Amélie groaned against her lips. “Undress me. Dieu en paradis, s’il-te-pla î t [7] .”

Angela grinned at her, and nodded. Carefully, she slipped her fingers under the fabric, feeling out the double-sided tape that had secured the dress in strategic areas, gently tugging the fabric free of warm, soft skin. “So beautiful. We’ll need to deal with the residue later.”

“You’re putting the sensual shower before the tumble into bed,” Amélie scolded. “The order of these things is important.”

“Of course. Will you help me?”

“I’ll need to.” Amélie leaned up, kissing her softly as her fingers worked the jacket open, and pulled it from Angela’s shoulders, letting it drop to the ground. The silk blouse was next, and both women fumbled at the buttons, laughter ghosting across the other’s skin. Unlike Amélie, Angela was wearing a bra, and Amélie cupped over the lace, stroking gently until her nipples poked upwards, eager.

“Teasing,” Angela warned. “I’m only half undressed.”

“Your fault,” Amélie breathed, and gave her breast a squeeze. “Not mine.”

“We’ll see about that.” Angela trapped Amélie’s hands in one of hers, and used the other to lift Amélie up onto her shoulder, ignoring the shriek of mock outrage and delight. “To bed with you.”

“Cheater!” Amélie proclaimed, even as she laughed, and wiggled. Angela’s hand came down, cupping her rear, slipping fingers underneath the black lace. “Scandal!”

“Not as scandalous as this.” Angela set her down on the bed, eyes roaming over her eagerly as Amélie’s breasts bounced slightly. She moved to straddle one of Amélie’s legs, and skimmed her fingertips over Amélie’s stomach. “I’m going to put my mouth all over you.”

“Promises, promises,” Amélie teased, and then Angela leaned down, kissing her firmly, pressing her down against the mattress. Amélie moaned, and her hands ghosted over Angela’s back, stroking up and down her spine. She didn’t need to see, or even work particularly hard to undo the bra, and it fell between them, tickling her briefly.

When Angela paused to take a breath, she pushed the garment aside, and moved her lips along Amélie’s throat, kissing at it softly, the nipping just where her rapid, beating pulse felt the strongest.

Amélie tugged Angela’s hair down, letting it spill over the doctor’s shoulders and then buried her fingers in it, stroking, tugging, and teasing. Against Amélie’s skin, she could feel the drag of firm nipples, and smiled. Angela’s mouth moved down in slow, intimate movements of lips against flesh until she came to one of Amélie’s nipples. Slowly, she swirled her tongue around it, spurring the half-hard mound to full firmness. Her hands were already moving lower, tracing between Amélie’s legs, just under the legs.

“Please…” Amélie whispered, arching upwards. “I’ll die.”

“I’ll save you,” Angela mumbled around her breast. “Heroes never die.”

Amélie moaned, need moving through her like electricity, like lightning crackling across stormclouds, and Angela brushed her entrance with one thumb. Pinned in place, she could only writhe as Angela’s mouth worked over her breast, while her fingers teased and tormented, stroking along her lips, around the soft, warm entrance, and up towards the sensitive nub of Amélie’s clit.

“This… this isn’t your first time with this,” Amélie observed as Angela pulled away enough to tug the panties down. “It isn’t mine, either.”

“It’s not,” Angela agreed. “I’m glad of that, we can be good to one another.” For a long moment, their eyes met in the near-darkness, and Amélie longed to pull her down and kiss her, to press their bodies together until there was no beginning or end.

_ You are as dear as Gérard to me, mon ange,  _ Amélie thought, and Angela moved down again. She nuzzled at Amélie’s navel, and moved her lips down to suckle gently at her clit. Amélie dug her fingers into Angela’s hair again, holding on for dear life. Angela’s fingers stroked her entrance again and again, with only the faintest hint of fingernails to tease and scrape.

Slowly, Angela pushed a finger inside Amélie, and let her squirm there before starting with a rocking motion, using her other hand to cup Amélie’s rear, massaging and squeezing as her mouth and fingers worked.

“Please, please, your tongue, mon Dieu…” Amélie begged, and Angela paused for a moment, and buried her tongue deep in Amélie’s core, licking steadily. Her fingers, slick with Amélie’s need, stroked along her lips, and nudged with each movement against Amélie’s clit.

Amélie writhed, moaning and gripping, her hips rocking with each wet thrust until she cried out, flooding Angela’s mouth with warmth.

“I… I....” she moaned, and Angela looked up. “I demand you take off your pants. I want to touch you.”

Angela smiled at her, and kissed the inside of her thigh. “Your wish is my command, Aimée.”

~ * ~

Every year, Angela Ziegler bought tickets to every performance of Swan Lake that Opera Bastille put on sale. The ushers had begun to recognize her, in the suit she wore, in the anxious, almost self-conscious expression on her face, knowing she was buying a single ticket, knowing she was there alone.

Knowing that, instead of a daffodil, she wore a rose on the lapel, as dark as red wine, that never seemed to make it out of the opera house with her. It was a performance that she barely saw or heard, because it wasn’t the ballet that interested her. Rather, it was who might be there.

_ She must still be going to these,  _ Angela reasoned, even as the lights dimmed.  _ This is her favourite performance, and she can’t have changed that much… can she? _

She remembered finding Gérard Lacroix, dead in his office, throat cut and life’s work gone. She remembered hurrying to Amélie’s house, only to find it empty -- no, worse than empty; ripped up, destroyed -- and haunted.

She remembered that she had far too many ghosts, too many spectres of death and pain to be willing to accept the loss of a still-living friend, no matter how different she might be.

She was calling herself Widowmaker now, and the first widow she’d created was herself.

There was no sign of a tall, pale-skinned woman in a wine-red dress. It was possible, though unlikely, that the subdermal armour made her invisible to the naked eye as well as to life-scans and sensors, but Angela doubted that. It had never been part of the original design.

Craning her neck only served to annoy the people behind her and beside her, and eventually, Angela gave up, and settled to watch the performance listlessly, willing something to happen.

_ Anything will do,  _ Angela thought miserably.  _ A broken prop or a plucked string. An off-tune horn, or a-- _ As she watched the prima donna dance, something flashed against her skin, something bright, jarring red, only the size of a laser pointer.  _ Is that… that’s some kind of gun! _

Immediately, she stood, twisting towards the source. Hands tugged at her to sit, and all she could confirm is that it came from one of the balconies. Unease arose in her stomach, a discomfort she had felt before, in the ruins of Gibraltar, in the face of Recall.

_ Is she going to kill that woman? Is this some kind of final stage of indoctrination, to murder her darlings? Am I next?  _ Fleetingly, she welcomed it, to escape the pure hell her life had become.  _ After all I’ve lost and all of the mistakes I’ve made, I would welcome it. My work, however, is not yet done. Amélie, please… _

The red light flickered, sometimes for the barest of moments, other times drawing the process out.

_ Is that… it’s Morse code. That’s an S, and that is… I have no idea. If she’s willing to talk, however, there’s still a chance. _

She stood, and moved past those in the middle-back row, ignoring the protests and obvious insults at her expense. She spoke excellent french, and it was almost hysterically funny to hear the offended attendees to refer to her as a ‘rude American’.

It had been a thing of moments to get up to the balconies, and she found her target on the second try: a tall, purple-skinned woman wearing a wine-red dress, cut low at the neck and high at the hip. It was, as far as Angela could tell, the very same gown, just as Angela wore the same suit.

“Mercy,” Amélie said, her accented english more pronounced. “I didn’t believe you would come.”

“Amélie, I--” Angela took a step forward. “Don’t shoot.”

“The dancing this season isn’t  _ that  _ bad,” she replied lightly. “I think I shall spare her.”

Angela sighed with relief, and only jerked a little when the rifle, cradled in Widowmaker’s arms, swung towards her. “You don’t need to do this.”

“Do what? Spare your life?” Amélie snorted softly, the sound barely a whisper. “I have seen you come here, performance after performance. I wanted to know why. Is it  _ guilt?” _ The disdain in her voice was palpable. “You must know there was nothing you could have done.”

“I could have noticed there was something wrong,” Angela said softly. “I could have saved your husband’s life.”

“No, you could not have,” Amélie said, and lowered the rifle. “You can’t save every patient, Doctor Ziegler. Let it go.”

“I lost Jack,” Angela said, the words spilling from her. “I lost his smile and his love of baseball and his pure heart. I lost Gabriel and his cooking and that serious little frown on his face while he tunes his guitar. I can’t lose you too. While you’re still alive, there’s hope.”

“You’re wasting your time,” Amélie snapped. “And your money. Talon will prevail. Overwatch is done.”

“Overwatch was never my life,” Angela replied, taking a hesitant step forward. “Being a doctor is my life. Saving people in my life. I can help you if you let me.”

“The performance is almost over,” Amélie said, gesturing to the balcony of the box. “You should watch the finale.”

Angela moved closer, almost close enough to touch, to embrace, to run trembling hands along cool skin and verify what was real and not the imaginings of a desperate woman. She moved past, and watched the final performance.

“It’s… as incredible as the first time you invited me here,” Angela admitted. “As moving. I remember--” There was an odd stillness to the box, and she turned.

Widowmaker was gone, leaving in her place a daffodil, as buttery as the sun on a summer’s day. Angela moved to it, picking it up and caressing the petals. Lifting it to her face, she inhaled briefly, and rubbed it against her lips.

_ An exchange, then. One of mine for one of yours. _ Angela removed the rose from her lapel, setting it down where the other had been, just as she’d done before, hopeful that Amélie would somehow find it again, and tucked the daffodil into her jacket in its place.

  
End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1- Incredible  
> 2- Hello, my love  
> 3- It was a joke  
> 4- the rose of my heart  
> 5- because I love you  
> 6- My angel is beautiful  
> 7- God in heaven, please


	6. Entry 6 - Transformers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Choose and change a major detail of your character’s life. This can be anything from a past decision to the circumstances of their birth or even setting. Explore the ramifications of this change. Who do they become?  
> Fandom: Transformers  
> Summary: Small decisions have great consequences that shake the very foundation of the world.  
> \--  
> I had the idea for an Autobot-Drift and Decepticon-Rodimus fic a while back, and while this isn't wholly complete, it is an AU.

The free clinic in Rodion’s Dead End was a tiny island of order in a sea of chaos. Around it, one could hear the screeching sounds of metal striking metal, the tearing of tires, ripped away, and the stuttering sounds of something that couldn’t be dignified with the term ‘combat’. Outside it, mechs were starving, fighting, and dying.

Within, lives could be saved.

The clinic itself was plain, serviceable but not overly fancy. There were no overt displays of wealth and privilege, despite the fact that any such facility would require investors. Medics and nurses didn’t come cheap, nor did life-saving supplies or generators or supplies of good quality energon for transfusions.

The exterior was battered, as dirty as the rest of the buildings on the narrow, darkened street, but the interior was clean, obviously cared for by those who worked within. A good sign to any who would be seeking treatment.

No wealthy mechs came here to see the doctors. No aristocrats or up and coming stars. The Clinic, as it was simply known, took in waifs and strays, burnouts and junkies and those who were down on their luck, but able to get away from the endless, destructive grind of their function.

The clinic’s owner was Ratchet and once, he’d been one of the most powerful mechs on Cybertron, the beloved Champion of a Prime. He had once been Asclepius, the second in a matched set. The greatest doctor of all time, pulled from the Well of All-Sparks by the whim of someone both powerful and dangerous.

At the moment, he was elbow-deep in a mech’s torso, trying to save his life. Orion had brought him the patient, burnt out from circuit boosters, half-dead from the beating he’d received before the enforcer had intervened. He had stained lips, and stained fingertips -- sure signs of siphoning -- and from the state of his tanks, it was the only thing that had kept him going this long.

“Do you have a name?” Ratchet asked tersely. “Clamps.”

Orion passed the tool over, obliging. “No, he… wasn’t able to speak. Ratchet, can you save him?”

_ He’s dying,  _ Ratchet wanted to snap.  _ I run a barely legal clinic in the worst part of Cybertron that isn’t actively trying to kill people. I’m short on resources of all kinds. I don’t need a truck telling me to do my job. _ That was, in fact, not what Ratchet said. Instead, he merely said, “I’ll try.”

It took three days. Three long days. With barely any time to recharge or refuel, with only one call to the Academy to tell them he was cancelling his classes for the next week and none to the various acquaintances trying to get his attention.

Orion came and went. There was only so much the enforcer could do, and he still had shifts to complete. Ratchet’s assistants -- First Aid, Joyride, Ambulon -- also came and went, and more rarely, so did the other doctors, Sunspark and Flarestar. Finally, when the sun set on the third day, and the stars began to rise, the mech began to vent, slowly and deeply. Vital signs that had barely hovered above death’s door had begun to rise, stabilize, become strong enough to be left alone.

“The patient,” Ratchet said, to an empty clinic, absent of assistants, patients, and friends, save for the mech lying on the table, “will live.”

~ * ~

He’d expected being dead to be less boring, to be quite honest. Lying in that alley, he’d waited for it. Not because he had been beaten -- that had come later, as he’d soon learn -- but because he’d hoped this batch of circuit-boosters, stolen energon, and stimulants would be the one that finally stopped his Spark.

Suicide was difficult for Cybertronians, but it didn’t mean he couldn’t try.

Instead of whatever the Afterspark had been promised to be -- full of light and peace and warmth -- this place had a plain, metal-grey roof, and when his audio senses returned, it was filled with soft, steady booping.

Flicking his gaze down, he saw that his chestplates were open, his Spark exposed. Wires and tubes twisted out from his internal organs, hooked up to a series of machines monitoring his every process.

Almost immediately, the noise from the machines came faster as realization struck him.

_ They’ve found me,  _ he thought, reaching up to grasp at the wires, only to find himself restrained.  _ No! I won’t let it happen again! I-- _

“You’re awake, I see,” called a voice. It was older, and a bit grating. It sounded nothing like Flintheel, her voice slick-smooth. It sounded nothing like Gauntlet or Heavytread or any of the others he’d worked for in recent days.

_ Maybe this is what a people-seller sounds like,  _ he thought, and kept his lip plates pressed tightly closed.

There was venting, and then the mech came into view: they were orange and white, with a triangular, distinctive finial, and markings on both shoulders. “I would like to know your name, so I have something to add to my patient roster.”

He shook his head, just a little, and tried again to reach for the wires.

“I was concerned you’d panic when you came out of recharge, considering the state you were in when you entered stasis,” the mech continued. “My name is Ratchet, and this is my clinic. You’re safe here. The mechs who hurt you are gone.”

“They aren’t,” he argued, without really meaning to. “They’re still out there. If they find me, if they catch me--”

“I can call Orion here, and he can take your statement. I’m sure he’d appreciate names to face plates for this kind of damage,” Ratchet soothed. “As I said… you’re safe here.”

“What did you do to me? Did you put anything inside me?” He fought to sound calm, but even to his own audials, he sounded panicked.

“I saved your life,” Ratchet said, and a touch of tartness entered his tone, which was more comforting than it wasn’t. “I purged your tanks and gave you real energon, not the filtered kind you were surviving on before. I repaired all of your internal and external damage. I replaced all of your damage ports and your intake. It’s all in the file, except for your name.”

He considered for a time, and said finally, “Drift. My name is Drift.”

~ * ~

“Where will you go?” Orion asked, frowning. It was a busier day at the clinic, and Ratchet had more needy patients to tend to. It hadn’t been comforting to watch Ratchet work, too much like memories of pain too fresh to be old. Instead, he chose to sit with Orion Pax, the enforcer Captain that had brought him in.

At first, Drift had been terrified of him. He was huge: red and blue, with glass windows in his upper chestplates, broad shoulders and big hands, pitted and scraped from hard work. He had partners, like Prowl, who was black and white and grumpy, and Tumbler, who was white and yellow and friendly. There was Roller, black and red, and Nightbeat, blue and gold. Streetwise, blue and grey, and others who had attended the visits Orion made to the clinic in the past three weeks that Drift had been kept here for ‘observation’. Since then, he’d learned better than to be afraid of Orion Pax, who had the softest Spark on all of Cybertron, save Ratchet himself.

“Back out onto the street,” Drift replied, shrugging. “There’s nowhere else for me to go.”

“That isn’t right,” Orion said. “You could get a job. You could--”

“I  _ had  _ a job,” Drift said. “I delivered packages. Real ones, for a little while, then drugs.”

“That’s not what I--”

“They tore me open,” Drift said, his words threaded with pain and no little fear. “They put them inside me, near my Spark chamber, near my intake and my tanks. If I stopped struggling, they would turn my pain receptors down faster.”

Down. Not off. Orion reached out, offering a hand. “I’m… I’m sorry, Drift.”

Drift stared at his hand, work-roughened and large, and reached for it, clinging to it. “I’m not a bad person. I’m not morally bereft. I just needed to work. I just needed to eat. I just… wanted the pain to stop.”

“It’s not a moral failing to be miserable and in pain,” Orion said, his expression said, even behind his battle mask. “It isn’t your fault. You could start again.”

“Like this?” Drift gestured with his free hand, though was unwilling to let go of Orion’s fingers. “No one will hire a siphonist. No one will hire an addict. I don’t…” He looked away. “Well, there’s one thing I could do, but it wouldn’t be much better. Lower class buymechs aren’t any happier than lower class couriers. Maybe a little better fed.”

“If you wanted to be a buymech, of your own volition and not because you were forced to it, I would support that choice,” Orion said, shaking his head. “But I cannot allow you to go back to a life of misery and pain. I have an idea, if you’ll agree, and if Ratchet will allow it.”

“...what is it?” Drift peered up into the larger mech’s optics.

“How would you like to be an enforcer?”

~ * ~

Everything changed the day she arrived.

He had been in the temple for a few years, consecrated and painted in the sacred runes by the priests. Sentinel Prime had taken him to berth the first night, pressing him down into steelsilk sheets while he squirmed under the weight of it.

_ You are sacred,  _ they had told him, when they wiped him down and applied ointment to the scratches in his paint and the tears in his protoflesh.  _ You are worthy of the Prime. _

Part of him wanted Sentinel to love him. To gaze at him with golden eyes, luminous and holy, and decide that he was the one above all others he cherished. Part of him hated Sentinel, because it always hurt, just a little, when they interfaced. When parts of him were called sacred and holy and worthy while the rest of him was ignored until the Prime was ready.

Sometimes, when Zeta came to visit, Zeta took him too, more gently, after sharing energon and treats with him, and holding his hand. He was still just as heavy, and it was still the same end. Important when needed, ignored when not.

Still, in some ways, he was better off than the others, and there were so many others: like himself, the other Primal concubines were special, considered worthy of the attention of the Primes. They too had been inscribed with golden runes, given enticing modifications to look like works of art. Sometimes, if he was busy, one of the others would go to Sentinel or Zeta, or they would ask for more than one. Sometimes, it was a performance, and sometimes, it was pure lust.

He was, however, Sentinel’s favourite, or so the priests claimed, and was in his berth nearly every night from the time he’d slipped his Caretaker’s clutches and wandered too close to the Palace in Iacon to the day she arrived.

The newest one had golden paint, sparkling brightly in the light. She had white, gauzy cloth draped around her shoulders, hanging over her seams and panels, as though concealing her most intimate spaces from view. He recognized the style, he had to wear similar garb when he was taken outside, concealing sacred spaces from all save the Primes.

_ A new concubine?  _ he wondered.  _ Is this it? Has he grown tired of me? _

When the priests came, they shooed him off, that they might do their work, but he crept back in, hoping that his paint -- red and orange and gold -- wouldn’t give him away. The priests never noticed, and while she did, she said nothing, not while they used their tools to engrave portions of the Covenant of the Primes into her plating, nor stud her valve with jewels that glimmered and flashed, nor cooed over her seals, still in place.

A good omen, they claimed. A very good sign. The Prime would call for her soon.

“I hate him,” she said, when the priests were gone, and he was the only one that remained. He started, and she smirked at him, lounging with her panels open, letting the welding cool, exposed to the air. She was beautiful, even without their work. “Sentinel Prime. I hate him.”

“Why?” he asked, moving closer, sitting on one of the abandoned chairs. “We belong to him.”

“We belong to ourselves,” she said. “We have our own hopes and dreams, things we believed in. Things we were good at.”

He shook his head. “Not me. I’ve always been here.”

“He scooped you from the Well?” she asked, surprised. “He’s picking them young, then.”

“Not… exactly,” he said. “I left the Well and I was rescued, cared for, but I… I ran away. Then I was taken by the temple. I’m good luck, auspicious. Special.”

“The shooting star,” she mused, and shook her head. “I was going to school, at the Academy. I’m an artist. I had plans. I had… vision. That’s why he took me, you know. As revenge against someone else. Someone he hates. So I hate him.”

“You’re not like anyone I’ve ever met before,” he admitted. “An artist?”

“A sculptor and a painter,” she agreed. “I agitated for equal rights for drones. That attracted attention from more than one person. Sentinel, obviously, but someone else too. Someone who needed my help.”

“I don’t know much about anything outside these walls,” he admitted. “I’ve been here a long time.”

“Oh, Sparkling, you don’t even know how little you know,” she said, and patted his arm. “Why don’t we have a talk and I can teach you all about the outside world.”

“I’d like that.... What is your name?”

“My name is Sunbeam,” she said, smiling. “Yours?”

“Oh,” he replied, ducking his head. “My name is Hot Rod.”

~ * ~

As it turned out, Sunbeam did not become the new favourite. As much as she seemed to hate Sentinel, Sentinel too hated her, or rather, hated the one he was using her against. Hot Rod was present for a few of their interactions, and could hear the poison in both their voices as they spoke. When told to join them, he felt like he was in the middle of a clash of wills, and it was terrifying to him.

Once, they’d gotten into an argument that had seen him in a special berth in the palace’s private medical ward, being patched up by a visiting aristocraft who happened to be a doctor when he wasn’t busy with politics.

“Are you alright?” Doctor Pharma had asked in a low undertone. “I understand the Prime can sometimes get… carried away.”

Hot Rod kept his head bowed, unable to look the doctor in the optics to lie to him. “I’m fine. Thank you.”

“Unbelievable,” Pharma murmured. “I’m glad Ratchet isn’t here to see the state the palace has come to.”

Hot Rod’s Spark leapt and churned, but he forced himself to remain still and quiet. He hated it. He wanted to move, to transform a dozen times and race around the whole city. He wanted to shout, to laugh, to be unrestrained like a fire roaring across an oil field.

He’d learned, very quickly, why that was inappropriate behaviour.

_ A revolution is coming,  _ Sunbeam promised him.  _ The Decepticons have seen the depth of the Primes’ evil and they will tear down these walls and expose them to the light of truth. Wait, Hot Rod, be patient. You’ll see an end to this. _

He was so, so tired of waiting.

In the end, he ran away after he’d recovered, hiding in the depths of Nyon, hoping that no one there recognized the runes inscribed into his paint, nor ever saw his spike and valve, or could identify what those modifications meant.

If the Decepticons wanted a revolution, there were worse places to start.

~ * ~

Drift had been an initiated -- if not very junior -- enforcer by the time he’d met Senator Shockwave at Orion’s side, and more than a little in love with the big truck. The Senator had noticed it, and only smiled. Orion, however seemed oblivious, and Drift was pathetically grateful for that fact.

It was less embarrassing that way.

Instead, he had seated himself on a bench, pretending to read while he listened to Orion and Shockwave discuss the latest Senate scandal. The Decepticons were growing more bold, and now there was a related -- or separate -- rebellion stirring in Nyon.

Nyon was an unusual place, all things considered. If Iacon was the City of Lights, and Vos was the Castle in the Sky, then Nyon was the Land of Little Pleasures. Entertainers tended to make their way to Nyon, and distractions of every kind could be found on its colourful streets, just waiting for the right mech to come along to see it.

Drift had never been, and secretly, he hoped he never would. He had never been trained out of his shyness, and even with the work done to fix his appearance -- thanks to Ratchet’s student, Knockout -- he was still uncomfortable in crowds.

“Mark my words,” Shockwave was saying in a low, lecturing tone. “The Decepticons will move soon, and then Sentinel will. We need to be ready for it.”

“What about Nyon?” Orion asked, and Drift let his gaze skim across the street, checking for eavesdroppers. “What move will they make?”

“None, I hope,” Shockwave replied grimly. “It’s too early, too… risky. If their leader has any sense, they’ll wait for Megatron to make his move, and then follow his lead.”

“Megatron only wants peace,” Orion insisted. “But the things the Senate has done, that the Primes have done…”

“I know, Orion. I know. We must hold onto hope.”

“We must hold onto hope, and do what we can to make hopes and dreams become reality,” he replied, and stood, offering Shockwave his hand. The senator clasped it, and looked over at Drift, winking one optic so quickly that he thought he might have imagined it.

Maybe Orion was in love with Shockwave, and that’s why he never noticed Drift’s interest.

“We have work to do,” Orion reminded him. “While things are quiet.”

Things were quiet until, two days later, there was an explosion in Nyon so large it destroyed every building in it.

~ * ~

Hot Rod hoped that, in the histories written later, in the covenant written about his life, no one mentioned the way he’d purged his tanks and cried after he pressed the detonator.

It had started with the rally at the amphitheatre. Hot Rod had organized it, stirring the people of Nyon up into a frenzy. There was so much wrong with Cybertron, so much damage, so much pain and hurt. Someone needed to stop it. Someone needed to make a stand.

It would be them, he had promised. The people of Nyon who stood up against Sentinel Prime.

The rally had become a peaceful protest, an expression of legitimate grievances in the face of horror. The peace had ended when Sentinel’s enforcers had arrived to deal with the problem, arresting, beating, and sometimes even killing anyone who dared resist.

Nyon’s rebellion, battered and shocked, went to ground.

Sentinel had ordered executions for anyone who had joined in the uprising of Nyon, and that meant sending forces in after them.

_ We can’t win,  _ he had reasoned.  _ We can’t fight them. He has an army. We have a protest rally. We don’t have another choice. _

There had been other options, but none would have gotten him the chance to kill Sentinel before the Decepticons did. None of the options had any other hope of cutting the head from the serpent.

The rebellion had discovered the rigged explosives in the buildings long ago, work done by a government that did not trust, nor was deserving of trust. It had been meant as a punishment by the Senate, not a punishment for the Prime.

Sentinel had still killed so many before the detonation went off that it was more like demolitions than murder.

Hot Rod had survived, despite curling up in a ball to cry. Despite wanting to die himself to join the others. Despite shame, despite loss, despite ruin.

“There’s no need to cry.” He had looked up to find a figure looming over him, all sharp angles and gunmetal paint. He was large, almost as large as a Prime, and Hot Rod felt something stir, deep in his Spark. “You must be Hot Rod… my name is Megatron, and I wish to speak to you.”

Hot Rod had taken his hand, careful of the claws on his fingers, and nodded.

Megatron had told him everything, all of the evil plans of the Primes, of Sentinel’s pettiness in taking dear Sunbeam. When Megatron had taken Hot Rod into his berth, to teach him the difference between being a concubine and being someone who made love, he’d gone willingly and eagerly.

Megatron had urged him to think over his intention to become a Decepticon, but Hot Rod had already made up his mind.

It hurt to have the procedure done, but it hurt less than destroying your home to kill one mech.

The war on Cybertron was just beginning, and Hot Rod intended to be on the winning side.

~ * ~

“Are you sure you want to do this, Drift?” Optimus Prime, leader of the Autobots, asked his lieutenant, and the smaller mech nodded. He checked his kit, readying himself for anything that the Decepticons might have in store to protect their prize.

It had been a long war, so there was a lot of ‘anything’ to plan for. “Assassination is a necessary evil, isn’t it? To protect a lot of people. Decepticon propagandists have been stepping up their game.”

“They have,” Optimus said wearily. The centuries of war had been hard on him, though he was every inch the blue and red enforcer he’d once been, with an even greater sense of power and authority.

Drift loved him fiercely, and he was certain that, had Optimus assented to any form of companionship, any one of his followers would have come willingly to his berth. Instead, Drift -- and everyone else -- were kept at an arm’s lengths, beloved but not loved, cared for but not tended to. “I can do this,” he promised. “How hard can it be to take out one person?”

“Hot Rod is dangerous, not for the power of his weapons loadout but because of his skill as an orator. Combined with Sunbeam’s propaganda and Soundwave’s communications expertise, Hot Rod can recruit for the Decepticons from anywhere. We’re fortunate that we’ve tracked him down to this world, relatively unguarded.”

“It could still be a trap, which is why I’m going and not you or one of the others,” Drift said. “I’ll be fine, you’re fussing.”

“I am,” Optimus admitted. “After Shockwave.... after Roller… I don’t want to lose another friend.”

“I know,” Drift said, even as his Spark ached. Optimus leaned in, touching his finial to Drift’s, affectionate without intimacy. Drift vented softly, and let Optimus be the one to pull away first.

“Good luck,” Optimus said. “Primus protect you.”

The planet Hot Rod was on was a neutral world, far away from the warfront between Autobot and Decepticons that had exploded all out of proportion with its intent. This place, home to a group calling themselves the ‘Circle of Light’, were Primal cultists, and Optimus felt a need to protect them, even as he indicated his desire to put an end to the cults, along with so many other practices, like the concubinage.

Despite the fact the Decepticons hated the Primes and the Primal cults, Megatron wanted something from these mechs, and Drift needed to stop it.

With the help of one of the Circle’s members, a flyer named Wing, Drift waited in place, sniper rifle braced and low, watching for the brilliant, bright mech to appear in his sights.

The preacher was about to become the martyr.

 

End


	7. Entry 7 - FF14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: What is the most memorable meal in your character’s life?  
> Fandom: Final Fantasy XIV  
> Summary: The feast set by the Company of Heroes promised to be a memorable one.  
> \--  
> Noire is one of my FF14 characters and, prompted by a discussion with Astralune about the Company of Heroes section of the MSQ in FF14.

She supposed the meal was supposed to be good, but she couldn’t taste any of it. The cheese she’d retrieved from the various forms of dangerous wildlife that had invaded Brayflox’s Longstop was pungent and strong, a heady aroma that the goblin couldn’t stop talking about.

_ It’s nice,  _ she had said.  _ Very nice. Nothing like a good, strong cheese. _

She supposed the Bacchus wine that she had helped create, the first of its kind in years since the Battle of Cartineaux, was good too, strong and a bit sweet. There was already talk of seeing if it could be diversified, turned into a kind of dessert wine.

_ It’s good,  _ she had said.  _ Well aged and well grown. _

She couldn’t help but think of the soldier more, the one terrified of being executed for treason. She wondered where he was now, if he was being feted by strangers.

The feast was meant to be sumptuous, and yet, all it tasted like was stone dust. All it tasted like was delays, endless delays, as Titan grew stronger. In her heart, not the organ that pumped and surged as she punched her way through gods and men alike, but the place where she kept her hopes, dreams, and deepest feelings, she felt like this so-called Company of Heroes simply wanted an excuse to hold lives in their hands once more, despite retirement.

It made her furious, and she was plainly not the only one.

As she sat, picking at her food, she watched Y’shtola of the Scions of the Seventh Dawn sip at plain water, ignoring the wine, her white tail lashing angrily. It had been Y’shtola who’d spoken out about the waste of time, and later, done what she could to make ready  _ after  _ all of this nonsense had begun.

_ There’s little in comfort I can offer her,  _ she mused.  _ I hate it as much as she does. Perhaps-- _

Fireworks went off over the ocean-side of Costa del Sol and this, it seemed, was the last straw; a celebration of what had not yet been won. The U elder leaned over, a wicked, amused smile on his face, and said something to the Scion, and jerked back as her clawed fingernails nearly took one of his eyes.

Y’shtola snapped something at him and pushed away from the table, stalking away, ears back and tail bristling and high.

Quietly, she stood, and took her own leave while the others were calling out to the Scion to return, to eat and drink with them, for tomorrow, they might all die to Titan’s massive stone fists.

_ If you believed that, really believed it, we wouldn’t be having this feast to begin with. _ She didn’t follow Y’shtola immediately, instead slipping off towards one of the vendors. He was a Lalafell, wearing a grease-stained apron and muttering over the remains of the day’s production.

“Too many people at that Godsdamned feast,” he muttered. “Not enough a-wandering.”

“More than you’d think,” she interrupted. “How much for those?”

“T-the Warrior of Light,” the Lalafell gasped. “I… I could not…”

“Here,” she said, reaching into her beltpurse and grasping a handful of gil, already eager to be away. “I’ll have two, please.”

“O-of course,” he said, and she poured the coin into his hands, exchanging it for two long, juicy looking kebabs of dodo, peppers, and zucchini, all local from Raincatcher Gully. “Thank you! Good luck, tomorrow.”

“Thank you,” she replied, and made her way back to the path Y’shtola had forged. There were rocks along the northern and southern portions of the beach, and even with the tide coming in, it was easy enough to find the Scion’s footsteps. “Shtola,” she called softly. “It’s just me.”

“Noire,” Y’shtola replied, and gestured. “Please, sit. Have I ruined your feast?”

“No, it wasn’t much of a feast,” she said. “But you didn’t eat. Here.”

“My mother used to make these,” Y’shtola murmured. “They were easy enough to make. She was a busy woman.”

“I’ve never had one before,” she confessed. “May I sit?”

“Of course,” the Scion replied, and pushed herself along the rock. It was a close thing, and their hips were pressed close. “I wish it were tomorrow already. Titan will--”

“I know,” she replied. “I agree. But we won’t make the so-called Company of Heroes move any faster than they want to.”

“No,” Y’shtola agreed, and bit into the kebab. “They’re-- ooh, this is good. Where did you get it?”

“One of the vendors,” she said. “Don’t worry, we’ll stop Titan, just as we stopped Ifrit. Just as we stopped so many others, and the day after that… we’ll determine who’s doing this and why. I promise.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” Y’shtola said, and switched the kebab to her left hand, leaving the right free, trapped between them. “It’s very close here, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is,” Noire said, wondering if she should move over. If she did, she would fall off the rocks, the so-called Warrior of Light demonstrably clumsy, too clumsy to fight a god. “Should you..?”

“Yes, I should.” Y’shtola wrapped an arm around her waist, and leaned her head against Noire’s shoulder. The Scion’s tail, flexible as a gaelicat’s, wrapped around her own thick, scaled one. The touch was light, and warm. Noire slipped her left arm around Y’shtola’s waist. “There, much more comfortable, wouldn’t you agree? For complaining and planning, and suchlike.”

“It is,” Noire said, smiling. “Yes.” She was careful to savour the kebab, as Y’shtola did, and as they stared out over the dark ocean, punctuated by occasional explosions of light and colour, she realized that this was, in truth, the feast she would remember.

End


	8. Entry 8 - Homestuck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Listen to “Twentytwofourteen” by The Album Leaf, and allow it to set the mood of your piece.  
> Fandom: Homestuck  
> Summary: It was a rainy afternoon when the questions began.  
> \--  
> As per FWD&J, AR's handle is "shadesSlick" or SS.

You sit at your desk, listening to the rain. It patters against the roof and the windows, like the tapping of fingers against a desk, or on a particularly noisy keyboard. The pace is steady, droning almost. It’s easy to understand why some claim the best days for sleeping are rainy ones.

You were out on the roof earlier, practicing by yourself. The robots should be sufficient to withstand rain, but you wanted to be alone. You didn’t even take your glasses with you -- to avoid damage, you said -- and you let yourself get soaked.

You aren’t as fond of water as some are, but then, you have a right to be.

You took a shower after you came in, hot water to clear away cold. The ablutive qualities of water are hard to deny, after all.

You’re sitting at your desk now, reading chat logs with a flick of the eye, monitoring for anything untoward. He is busy, watching every Fast and Furious movie that was ever made, and a few that were cut before they saw the light. A shame about Paul Walker. A damn shame.

She is asleep, lulled to the realm of Dream like a cat, and you’re watching over her dreamwalking. One day, you’ll chain her up, just for her own protection, but on the other hand, it makes her hard to find. That will come in handy too.

There is a conversation to read, however, with her. You look it over, and you feel your facial expression -- cool and remote and dude-like -- pull into a frown.

You quickly enter the conversation:

TT: I’m sorry, Jane, is my Auto-Responder bothering you?  
GG: No, not at all. Since you put the kaibosh on his extra-curricular activities with RoLal, we’ve engaged in our own.  
GG: Perfectly safe for young individuals and old, I assure you. :B  
TT: Sometimes I don’t think you take this seriously.  
GG: And the rest of the time, you realize that of course I don’t take this seriously?  
TT: Not the choicest of phrases from an intelligent yet skeptical young lady, no.  
GG: Why thank you, Mr. Strider.  
GG: As you can see, AR and I are engaging in detective shenanigans of a roleplaying variety.  
TT: Shit, let’s be hardboiled?  
GG: Exactly. We were distracted, however, by a discussion of the ambiance.  
TT: I’m taking a look now.  
TT: I see. To wit, ‘what do things feel like to meatbags?’  
SS: Excuse me, that’s not what I said.  
SS: It seems you’re being a douche for no reason.  
TT: I’m paraphrasing.  
SS: *You’re* a paraphrasing.  
TT: That doesn’t even make sense.  
GG: Gentlemen and mechs, please.  
SS: Mech is a good word. Nicer than ‘evil robot’, at any rate.  
TT: You’re not even a robot.  
GG: What he was *asking* was: what does a dark and stormy night actually feel like.  
GG: It’s actually raining here right now, and as I understand it, thanks to the vagaries of weather patterns, it is there, too.

The vagaries of weather patterns and a chat client that lets you communicate through time.

SS: One of us actually has a body, so they might be able to describe what it feels like.  
TT: Jane has a body too.  
SS: Don’t I know it.  
SS: Wonk.  
TT: Do not even.  
TT: Fine, if it will satisfy your curiosity.  
TT: ...but, Jane should go first.  
GG: Certainly. Rain is… wet. It isn’t the same as bathing or taking a shower. You shouldn’t be feeling rain at the same pressure or temperature as processed water, for one thing, and people don’t usually get caught out in a shower. They aren’t usually dressed to protect themselves from it.  
TT: Rain comes at different frequencies. Sometimes it’s soft, only a little heavier than mist. The softest tap of keys, the lightest alterations in html. Sometimes it’s heavy, like pounding on a mechanical keyboard when someone on the internet is wrong, driving like nails.  
GG: Sometimes it’s warm, like a gentle hug, and sometimes it’s cold, colder than snow because it’s so wet. Relentlessly so, soaking into everything.  
TT: When the wind picks up, it carries the rain in different directions. Sideways, sometimes upside down, if it’s bad enough. Water wears away at stone, and hurricanes and tropical storms don’t even need to try hard.  
GG: Rain is necessary for life. Without water, plants wither and die. Animals dehydrate. People die. We do everything we can with our environment to prevent that. The only thing standing between dead wastelands and deserts with hidden life is adaptation, evolution.  
TT: A lot of the time, humans do things to avoid rain: they wear coats, they use umbrellas, they hide under awnings until the rain goes away and they can skirt the bloodied guts of clouds.  
GG: Some people embrace it, dancing in the rain, spinning and twirling.  
TT: On a dark and stormy night, it would be all of the most violent excesses of weather: driving wind, water pouring from clouds without end.  
GG: The low rumble of thunder as electricity gathers in both clouds and ground, building, building…  
TT: Reaching out like lovers afraid of being parted until, the crack comes, and then

The peal of thunder comes as a surprise, and you swear, pushing back from your computer hurriedly. A moment later, the lightning flashes around you. There’s a grounding pole at the top of your apartment, it’s not like this has never happened before. You’re the highest point in an endless ocean, it only makes sense.

...but it still startles you enough that your attention on your Dersite half falls by the wayside, and Roxy slips away, drooling with a grin. You wonder if she’s experiencing it too, or if the storm is small. It doesn’t sound small. It sounds huge and humbling. You hate that, you hate the way your hands shake as you press them to your desk for comfort.

The power hasn’t gone out. If that happens, you aren’t sure what you’ll do. It’s never happened before.

GG: Dirk?  
GG: Dirk, are you alright?  
GG: I think my power flickered, the rain’s picked up into a storm.  
GG: Fortunately, we have a solid system here.  
SS: If he’s dead, I call dibs on the robots.  
TT: I’m not dead, and you *know* that. I’m fine, Jane. The storm startled me too.  
TT: Was that sufficiently expressive for the roleplaying?  
SS: Yes, I think it was. Thanks, meatbag.  
TT: AR, please.  
TT: Jane, are you busy?  
GG: Not unless we choose to resume our roleplaying, and even then, windows can be resized. Why do you ask?

You consider. You consider for long enough that it’s amazing Jane hasn’t called you out on it. Finally, you put your fingertips to keycaps and type, the sound as steady as rain.

TT: I know you’re not much of a movie person, but there’s a lot of media we could watch together.  
TT: If you don’t have access, I can even share.

Easy enough to connect her to a proxy server that doesn’t exist in her time and never will. You aren’t sure what you hope for, a yes or a no.

GG: Well, I fear I’m behind on my Cutthroat Kitchen.  
GG: But do you really want to watch reality tv with me? A reality tv cooking show, even?  
TT: Jane, I would be happy to spend time with you at any time, trust me.  
GG: Then let me find where I left off. Get comfortable, I like to marathon watch shows.  
TT: Trust me, I have nothing but time to spend with you tonight.  
GG: :)  
TT: :)

\-- shadesSlick [SS] has sent you a message! --

SS: You’re welcome, meatbag.  


End 


	9. Entry 9 - WH40K

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: How does your character feel about dancing? Are they good at it? bad at it? Does their skill color their perceptions of the activity?  
> Fandom: WH40K - Heresy Era and Modern  
> Summary: Don’t look back, keep your eyes on me.

There was much that Selene despised about the Imperium of Man -- its treatment of Astropaths and Psykers, its hypocrisy involving religion, its warmongering desire to wipe out all life that wasn’t properly human -- but there were so many other things that Selene _did_ like about Imperium.

Civilization was a beautiful thing within reason. Cities, when constructed open and beautiful and for ease of communication and travel, were like jewels on a coronet. Manufactorums, with their pollutants carefully controlled and monitored, were marvels of innovation and ease for those they served. Libraries, hospitals, grocery markets, all incredible to the eyes of one that had grown up in a primitive little village in the middle of nowhere, knowing instinctively that the world was greater and wider than a place with a few dozen homes and a great pen to tend the village’s flock of sheep.

It was, of course, the ‘within reason’ portion of this that was difficult for the Imperium to manage, with a hunger for ‘bigger, better, faster’ that was difficult to deny when it came from Terra itself. Civilization always came with a price, one that was paid in blood, in death, in tears, in suffering, and paid for by both civilian and military alike.

It made her soul ache no less every time she felt their pain bleeding through the shields she’d constructed around her own mind. _If only there was more I could do for them._

At that very moment, she was fulfilling one of her duties to civilization, and that was to attend social occasions with various nobles and military personnel to convince them of the continued righteousness of the Great Crusade.

 _It’s not as though I mind the_ concept _of parties. It’s more the execution I find questionable._ Selene stood near one of the elegant stone archways of the ballroom, and tried not to wring her hands anxiously. She had been dressed for the occasion in midnight velvet, with constellations picked out along skirts so long they brushed the ground as she walked. Her hair, moon-bright, had been arranged to resemble one of the silver-petaled flowers of Colchis, fastened with a pearl and silver clasp that matched the necklace snuggled against her throat. _Though perhaps ‘execution’ is an apt term. I feel as though I’m going to my death._

There were dozens of people in the ballroom, all dressed beautifully. Some of the nobles dripped jewelry, putting Selene’s simple accoutrements to shame. Others, such as the Lords Militant, wore their dress uniforms that bristled with medals, and looked as though they might tip over any moment. One particularly well decorated general swayed as she examined a tray of treats offered to her by a servant.

 _I don’t wish to be here, but I must,_ she thought desperately. _But he promised he’d try to be here, so I hope--_

The musicians, a combination of talented individuals that hadn’t been accepted as Remembrancers for the Great Crusade, and instrument-modified servitors, began to play a swell of music and, unlike herself, and unlike anyone else at the ball, there was a guest to be introduced.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please turn your attention to Lord Primarch Horus Lupercal of the Emperor’s own Sixteenth Legion of Space Marines.” Every eye turned to the double doors, and a number of the nobles began clapping.

By instinct, Selene clapped as well, studying his appearance in turn: while on the battlefield, he wore power armour the colour of his Legion, the Luna Wolves, in pearl-grey, this was not the place for an armoured Primarch in all of his fearsome glory. Instead, he wore a version of the military dress uniform shared by his fellow generals and war leaders: it was black, trimmed with gold braid, and instead of medals, which would have outshone every person’s here, he wore the simple crest of his Legion and its number beneath.

His brown-blond hair, always kept short, gleamed in the light as he acknowledged their applause, while at the same time, scanning the ground for something, or someone. For a moment, Selene was tempted to shrink back, to let her beloved handle the spotlight, the brilliant sun to her retiring moon, but then he found her.

“The heralds were remiss,” he said, and the soft rumble of his voice warmed her to her very core. Unerringly, he moved through the parting crowd to her side. “There you are, I was worried when I didn’t see you at the clothiers.”

“I went along on my own,” Selene said. “I wasn’t sure you’d be going, and I had my orders, so…”

“There’s no need to be shy,” Horus said, and offered her his arm. She took it, and smiled up at him. “They’re here to meet you, after all, not me. I’m only the distraction.”

“I’m sure you could do better,” she murmured. “They’d pay attention to you.”

“You’re the one with all the bright ideas,” Horus insisted. “I’m just the old war dog.”

“You’re _not_ old,” Selene retorted. “Not even compared with some of the people here.”

“Better an old war dog than a new one,” Horus replied, and nodded to the musicians, who resumed their play. “I know you’re passionate about this, why worry?”

“They’re-- loud,” Selene confessed, looking down and away. “All of the focus pressing into me. It’s… hard to manage. There are others who prefer attention -- Fulgrim, Roboute, yourself -- but not me. I prefer my work.”

“But no one can do what you do. We’re all unique, and you most of all.” Horus paused, and lifted her hand to his lips, kissing it, then brushed them along the inside of her wrist. “Some of us have built empires, others nations, others cities. You built a civilization. You should be celebrated.”

“A Primarch is designed to be the best at what they do,” Selene murmured, trying to hold back the bitterness from her tone. “So how is merely being good at what that is a noteworthy thing? Only a deeply flawed being would be bad at something after all of that.”

Horus sighed softly, and over his shoulder, gestured towards the musicians. “You’re too hard on yourself, my love. You are perfect in every way, brilliant in all the ways you _need_ to be so that you can do what you need to do, which is guide us when the war is over. We’re all talented, but we aren’t all talented in the same ways, or for the same reasons. Here-- I have an idea.”

He stopped his circuit, and Selene glanced around. He had, in short order, brought them to the middle of the dance floor. Selene gripped his arm. “No, I can’t, I--”

“Have you ever danced before? Even on Arcadia?”

“Y-yes,” Selene hesitated. “In the fields, when I was alone. Sometimes, I’d just… burst into song. Mostly about sheep.”

“Something I hope you’ll share later.” Horus steered her around him, so he could wrap his arms around her properly. “Eyes up and on me,” he said, tone firm but gentle. “Don’t look at your feet, or my crest. Up at me, understand?”

“I’m not one of your neophytes,” Selene said tartly, but forced herself to look up into his twinkling hazel eyes, and slowly, she dared to smile. “No need to give orders.”

“Less orders, more encouragement,” Horus said. “Your hands-- that’s good. We clasp, and arms around waists. You look beautiful, by the way. Unsurprising, but true.”

Selene flushed with pleasure. “Flattery will get you everywhere.”

“Trust me, I’m looking forward to the repeat performance. Now, ignore everyone else. I’m big enough, I must be the only one you see.”

Selene found that, if she focused, that she could only see him, only hear his soft voice, only feel the warmth of his mind, so open and caring. “Yes.”

“Good,” Horus said, and raised his voice. “Begin.”

The musicians began the first strains of a new song, and it felt both humbling and audacious that Horus would have them play for only the two of them, regardless of their importance. Horus guided the first steps of the dance and, refusing to look anywhere but at him, Selene followed.

“So, Lady Primarch,” Horus murmured. “Tell me about your plans for the upcoming reform to shipping.”

“Well,” Selene began, her feet light as she skipped across the ground, following Horus’ steps. “Right now, the supply lines to the Exploratory Fleets are three months behind in requisite materiel due to the vagaries of Warp travel and the persistence of the Departmento Munitorium’s desire to see supplies coming from traditional sources. Often, we ship raw materials to processing facilities and then have to ship them back out. If we could simply process on site, we would increase our productivity and reduce protectionism.”

“That wouldn’t work for everything,” Horus said, twirling her expertly as her skirts flew out. “Nothing requiring Manufactory-grade production could be done just anywhere.”

“No, but there are other things that can be, and there is the possibility of discovering new manufactorums as the Great Crusade continues,” Selene said. “With access to the Adeptus Mechanicus records, I might even be able to suggest routes that are the most likely to yield such facilities. You might even stay out of trouble that way.”

“I’m nothing _but_ trouble,” Horus teased as they moved. “You should know that.”

“Here I thought you were the favourite, and I was the troublemaker,” Selene replied. The dance continued, and they whirled and spun in the centre of the dance floor until first Selene, then the musicians, flagged. “Where did you learn to dance like that?”

“You aren’t going to assume I was created to dance?” Horus asked, slowing their pace until Selene was less dancing, and more being rocked against his chest. She rested her head against his shoulder, trying to slow her breathing.

“I don’t think that was the lesson here, no.”

“When I was growing up in the palace, there was dances. Balls, mostly. I watched people dance until I could do them myself, and now, I have a partner to share with.”

“Do you enjoy it?” Selene wondered, eyes half-closed, as though she could fall asleep in his arms immediately. “Dancing, I mean.”

“I do,” he admitted. “It feels truly free, but of course, I need someone to share it with.”

“One day,” Selene said. “One day you’ll dance among the stars.”

“Only if the moon promises to shine above me,” Horus murmured, and ran a hand up her back. “And keep me safe from the great dark.”

“With you,” Selene said, and leaned up to kiss him. “Every dance is one amongst stars."

~ * ~

“Dance with me.” The words came across terse, and even stern. “If you don’t know what to do, I can instruct you.”

“Inquisitor,” the Space Marine said, his expression betraying no discomfort. “My purpose is to serve as your bodyguard, not your dance partner.”

“You’re not exactly in power armour, are you?” Lavinia asked. “No aliens to fight, no heretics to crush. Dance with me." The Inquisitor, smaller, but stubborn, with violet eyes and long, white blonde hair, glared up at him, hands on hips. He stared right back. “We need to fit in, and not have yet another argument about who gets to be on top this time. So dance, or I’ll ask for another bodyguard.”

“Very well,” the Astartes replied, and offered the Inquisitor his hands. She nodded to him, and let him start with the next song.

She was expecting-- well, she wasn’t quite sure, but not the dextrous ease with which the Space Marine moved. The Inquisitor looked curious, and considered.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Where did you learn this?” Lavinia asked. After a moment, when she thought it go unnoticed by the greater crowd, she lay her head against his chest. “Unless this is standard.”

“No,” the Astartes admitted, and shifted to hold hold her close. “I’m not sure where, exactly, but I did learn.”

“You’re good at it, Leviticus,” the Inquisitor murmured. “Very good.”

“Thanks. You too.”

End


	10. Entry 10 - Transformers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Write about a moment of sudden spiritual doubt.  
> Fandom: Transformers  
> Summary: In the aftermath of a war without end, a crisis of faith takes those who remain behind.  
> \--  
> For a little while, I’ve speculated if Starscream’s hallucinations might not be a side effect of being a Matrix bearer for a period of three years while the Decepticons were confined to the asteroid belt in Earth’s solar system, and he can see Bumble Bee because Bee had the rest of the Matrix after Optimus split it in half. There’s plenty of holes in the idea, but that doesn’t stop me from writing fanfiction about it.

_ It’s just an artifact,  _ Starscream mused.  _ I don’t see what’s so special about it. _

The second-in-command of the Decepticons sat on his throne of scrap metal, holding the Matrix of Leadership, sacred artifact of the Primes, in both hands. It had handles, conveniently enough, so it was easy enough to hold onto, to turn in his hands, letting it capture what little light remained.

_ You can lead, Starscream,  _ Optimus had said.  _ You can end this once and for all. _

_ Leadership is not given, it is taken. Earned,  _ he’d insisted, and carried Megatron away, ignoring the desperation and despair on the Prime’s face. By all rights, he should have been a Prime now, if it worked that way.

_ Maybe it’s fake,  _ Starscream thought, and was tempted to throw it away.  _ Maybe there was never any power to begin with. _

There were stories about the Primes. About their deeds, about their virtues and many, many sins. It had ever been the Decepticon way to denounce the Primes, denounce Cybertronian religion as a whole. Primes were mortal beings, though powerful and long-lived ones. They were flawed, deeply so, and unworthy of loyalty. The Necrobot was a myth, because no one cared about you when you died. Junkion was real enough, but it wasn’t  _ hell  _ as the humans would call it. It was just a place where things were discarded, some more dangerous than others.

_ So, it stands to reason, that the Matrix is just a source of power and energy, and the Primes are no more worthy than any other,  _ Starscream continued, turning the Matrix this way and that.  _ The powerful will rule over the weak, war will bring forth peace. One shall rise, and one shall fall. _

One  _ had  _ fallen. Another had risen. A third… had an opportunity. An opportunity not taken. That was his choice, of course, his freedom.

“Freedom is the right of all sentient beings,” sounded all around him, unbidden, as though someone had quoted the platitude right in front of his face.

“Who is it?” he demanded, his voice loud and echoing in the empty room. “Show yourself!”

There was nothing. The words gave way to silence, thick and deep, and he felt his fans click on, whirring. Slowly, he calmed, and returned his attention to the Matrix. He studied the inlay of circuitry, elaborate as the system that moved through every Cybertronian, giving them life.

“It’s a work of art,” the voice said, ringing like the sound of metal against metal. Instinctively, Starscream flinched. “And so are you, or is it that other term… ah yes. A piece of work.”

Starscream looked around again, and this time, he thought he saw something, hovering, hazy and indistinct, near him. “What are you?”

“Not even going to ask ‘who’ first? How rude of you.” The figure wavered. “You can figure it out, if you try.”

“No!” Starscream cried. “No games! Tell me or I’ll kill you where you stand!”

“How can you kill that which has no life?” the figure asked, and disappeared.

“Commander Starscream?” called one of the Decepticons. It was Bombshell, and Starscream glared at him. “Is something wrong?”

“Get out!”

~ * ~

“We must safeguard the humans against the return of the Decepticons.” So spoke Optimus, last of the Primes, to his Autobots. To some, they were followers, the disciples of a demigod. To others, they were the deluded fools that helped perpetuate the most terrible war in the histories of countless organic and mechanical beings -- many of whom had not survived. To Optimus himself, they were friends, comrades in arms fighting the good fight against a relentless, unstoppable force that could only be met with opposition equally implacable.

On days like these, he missed being Orion Pax. Life had been simpler when he’d been an enforcer. He had done his job with exceptional care, keeping lower Iacon peaceful and safe. He had known who to discipline and who to let go with a warning.

_ How simple was it really?  _ a voice whispered to him, ugly and squirming under his plating.  _ Simple when enforcers were beating prisoners in their cells? Simple when the Senate was corrupt, monstrous bullies with no respect for anyone? Simple when they took Shockwave from you? Roller? Drift? _

Optimus shuttered his optics tightly, and pressed his back against the cave wall until his metal dimpled under the force of it. Then he stopped, listening to his own engines work, as though he’d driven one hundred thousand miles and only stopped briefly for fuel.

Around him, the other Autobots went about their business. Prowl and Bluestreak monitored human communications, watching for any sign of Decepticon modus operandi. Jazz and Blaster would monitor them, making sure they weren’t being excessively paranoid in their work. Ratchet and Wheeljack worked together, heads bowed as they consulted in some manner or another. Perceptor added his own opinion when necessary, and returned to work on his rifle when not. It had broken Optimus’ Spark, just a little, to see the scientist take up arms.

Elsewhere, Cliffjumper and Bumblebee were deep in conversation, voices too low to hear and, in a different place, as private and remote as they could manage, Drift and Hot Rod were feeling each other up, with a touch too urgent to be gentle, and too desperate to be caring.

_ They deserve better,  _ he thought, and it was impossible to say which ‘they’ was meant. The Autobots as a whole, definitely. The Autobots scattered and distant, unaware of what had befallen their leader, certainly. Those who actually did know, surely. Every person, every Spark returned to the Well, every hour spent on war, deserved better.

He longed for the Matrix with an ache that was nearly as bad as the one he’d felt when he’d first received it. It had been a mistake, he feared, that it had come to him. That he wasn’t wise enough -- Megatron had been, before things had gone bad; Shockwave, definitely, before he’d been mutilated by the Senate -- and that’s why, ultimately, the Matrix had left him.

_ It was stolen, I can’t blame myself for that,  _ Optimus mused, leaning his head back to rest against the stone.  _ I nearly died. Everyone believed I  _ had  _ died, and it was only by the closest of margins that I didn’t. Still… _

Still the absence ached. It was lonely without it, the warm, comforting wisdom that had grown quiet too often near the end. He had taken less time with the Matrix as time had gone on, and he missed it.

There were no comforting words to offer him, no secrets from an ancient age, of Primes almost forgotten by their own followers, their own people. He felt empty, and perhaps, in the end he had been no less worthy of it than those who had come before.

_ Why, Solus Prime, have you forsaken me? _

~ * ~

The Decepticons were starving.

It was a bitter truth to swallow, and one that would no more nourish Starscream than it would any of the others. In effect, winning the war without Megatron was almost identical to losing it in that respect. There was no victory, no peace. Just endless nibblings.

The Matrix, of course, had been no help.

“Just go to Earth and talk to Optimus,” the figure had suggested. It had resolved enough to be more clearly visible, and for a hallucination, it offered Starscream very little comfort. It was large, bulky, and broad, with biolights tracing along seams that pulsed with red over an orange-red frame. In its hands was a huge hammer, mostly golden with hints of Matrix-blue gleaming at the head, and along the haft. The hammer was three quarters of the mech’s not insubstantial height.

When they spoke, the voice was feminine and low, or loud and commanding like a thunderclap, and would not leave Starscream alone.

“Why would I want to do something that foolish?” he demanded, finally, after ignoring the figment seemed not to work. “The Autobots lost.”

“Arguably, they won,” the figure told him. “Or rather, you all lost because you forgot what you were fighting for. You still can’t remember, because you’re sitting there fondling my Matrix and looking over at the next room, waiting for Megatron to wake up to kick you off your tyrant’s throne.” It snorted. “As though he were any different.”

“I’m not afraid,” Starscream said, too quickly. “Not of Megatron, not of the so-called Prime.”

“You’re terrified,” the figment said, and emotion flickered up through Starscream’s Spark. “You’re afraid because you got what you wanted and now you don’t know what to do. You’re afraid because your existence has been about defining yourself against someone else, and when that person is gone you don’t know who you are.”

“I am  _ Commander  _ Starscream, leader of the Seekers, second-in-command of the Decepticons, terror of--”

“The Seekers don’t exist. Thundercracker and Skywarp are gone, and you’ve lost too many others. Thrust and Ramjet’s corpses are somewhere down there--” the figure resolved enough to thumb in the vague direction of Earth, and even as he stared wildly, he could see the pattern of biolights traced out along its -- her -- face, identical to that of the inner workings of the Matrix, “--and you’re up here.”

“Thundercracker betrayed us,” Starscream said, his voice tremulous. “He sided with the humans.”

“He sided with doing the right thing.” The form wavered, flickering like a candle in the wind. “You sided with doing what you were told.”

“I will not bend at the knee to the Autobots! Or to you!”

“Sometimes wisdom is knowing when to let go,” the figure reminded him as it faded. “Call him, talk to him. He can help you.”

Starscream cried out, wordless and angry, and for a moment, he felt his hands clench around the Matrix; to throw, to tear apart, to smash, he wasn’t sure, but in the end, he only sat on his throne, shaking.

~ * ~

“We shouldn’t even still be here,” Hot Rod insisted. His optics were bright blue, flashing with emotion as he faced Optimus. Hot Rod, made difficult choices. Hot Rod, made mistakes and came back from them. Hot Rod, was impulsive and reckless. Already, he could feel the way the Autobots were dividing themselves into camps. His. Hot Rod’s. It didn’t make a difference.

“We have to keep the humans safe,” Optimus repeated, though it felt weak, as weak as it had when he’d first made the argument to the others. Then, they’d agreed. Now, they stood divided.

“Safe from  _ what?”  _ Hot Rod demanded. “The Decepticons are gone, they can take down the stragglers without any assistance from us. Either we reveal ourselves or we leave, but I’m not staying in this cave any longer.”

The Matrix, he felt certain, would have given Hot Rod a better answer. It would have guided him on the right path. It would have assured him that the emptiness he felt would heal in time.

All he had to do was have a little faith.

End


	11. Entry 11 - Homestuck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: What’s the best gift your character has ever given—or received?  
> Fandom: Homestuck/Shadowrun crossover ‘verse for Erase, Rewind  
> Summary: Some gifts are hard to quantify, but are valued above all others.

“What do you think?” Jane asks you, and you honestly aren’t sure what you’re going to say. She has dark hair, little more than a fuzz. You probably wouldn’t know her from most of the rest if she hadn’t been pointed out to you.

She’s yours, but she isn’t.

“She’s perfect,” you say, finally. “She’s going to have the best mother in the whole world.”

~ * ~

_Two years earlier..._

It’s raining at the funeral. If he were here to see it, Dave would have made fun of it. You didn’t exactly dress up for the occasion, but all of four people showed up to it, and one of them was the officiator.

For some people, funerals don’t mean anything. It’s more about the disposal of remains. In your family’s case, though, they have a place where they’re buried, a little corner of the world to take their final rest. You never expected to see Dave here, though.

_I promised I’d take care of him… so now what? What happens here?_

You feel numb, cold from the rain. You were supposed to say some words, but you can’t say them. Jane says them instead, that he was a good brother and a good friend. That he died doing what he loved, with a sword in one hand and a gun in the other. You remember how he would wear a long, red trenchcoat and a pair of high, buckled boots like a character in an ancient anime, and he used to accuse you of stealing the hair so he couldn’t.

You remember pouncing him and trying to brush his hair up into a lick. You remember when you both used to laugh more. You’re not even sure you know how to smile.

Roxy came to the funeral, and she looks pissed off and distracted. Rose is probably talking to her, nebulous and yet contained in cyberspace. Rose liked Dave. She liked Dave a lot. Now Dave is gone.

AIs are immortal, anyway, and the rest of us aren’t.

John isn’t here, he’s across the country on a tour, but he sent a card. You have the card inside your own jacket, and you’re going to leave it on top of the plot. Dave needs it more than you do.

He’s been cremated, and he fits inside a hollow brick. It saves room, and it fits him better into the family plot. Maybe, someday, you’ll be there too.

You don’t remember what’s being said, but you feel it when Jane takes your hand, and tugs you away. You know she asks you a question but you don’t hear it, and don’t realize what you've agreed to until you’re in her car, heading towards her house.

You’ve been here before, and it’s nice, though small as houses go, but bigger than the apartment you shared with Dave. You’re going to have to clean it or deal with the mess somehow, and you’re not sure you want to right away.

“A nice cup of tea will warm you up,” Jane says. She doesn’t force herself to sound cheerful, and you appreciate that. Jane’s freedom cost a lot, more than you expected it to, but it’s still hers. She parks her car and gets out, then makes sure you’re following.

It’s still raining when you head inside, dripping and wet. Jane, at least, is smart enough to own a raincoat and wear it. You’ve just never worried about it much, but in her perfect, clean house, once again you remember that you’re dirty, unkempt. You run your fingers through your hair and shed water everywhere.

“Just take your things off and leave them,” Jane calls. “I’ll lend you my robe.”

“Thanks,” you say, and anything else gets caught in your throat. Dave never used to care, and you used to fight about it. Not even all that long ago. You cared a lot, because you were fifteen and stupid, once.

You undress, peeling out of sopping clothes and letting them fall. The outer layers are obvious choices, but the inner ones… but you’re wet, soaked down to your boxers so off they come, until you’re standing on tiptoes in the front entrance, wearing your shades and the chain with Jane’s key on it.

“Don’t stand in the wet,” Jane chides as she comes back downstairs, carrying a fluffy blue robe. “It’s nothing I haven’t seen before.”

You wish you could blush instead of standing there, freezing your ass off. You walk away from the pile of wet things and towards her, and use your metal hand to cover yourself. Not that it helps, from the way Jane glances down, and then up again. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” she says. It makes you flinch, even though she sounds casual. She’s said it a lot recently. “Though I may have underestimated my robe’s size. Here you go.”

The robe is too short. Women’s robes aren’t meant to be big, fluffy, and covering. They’re meant to be worn into the bedroom and then immediately discarded to show off something pretty underneath. Don’t look like that, you know some things. Jane’s already a foot and a half shorter than you are, so the combination of the two means it barely fits around your torso, and you show off a lot of arm and even more leg.

Still, Jane nods to herself, and gestures for you to follow.

You hope she doesn’t want to talk about Dave. You hope she does.

“Let’s start you off with some tea,” Jane says, and she heads to the kitchen. In times past, you’ve waited on her couch, but somehow, you don’t want to be near that couch. You wonder if she’ll get rid of it, but she’s not rich, not any more. Not after everything that’s happened. You follow her, and find a place to sit, on the edge of a seat so your thighs don’t stick to it. “Do you want some cakes too?”

“If they’re yours,” you say. You aren’t much one for treats, but hers are simply the best there is. If you could carry on a conversation without stumbling, you’d try to help out with it, but you can’t. You stare at your fingers, five flesh and blood, five made of nanocarbons and delicate tinkering.

You wonder what it would be like to replace the other one, and more. Something to contemplate when you aren’t pretending like today was the day you buried your kid brother.

Jane bustles, and soon enough, you have tea and cake, pushed gently under your nose so you’ll notice them. She sits across from you, drinking her own tea. She fiddles, nervous. She’s never really needed to hide her emotions from you.

“Jane, I--”

“Dirk, I--”

You each look at each other, and she says, “Go first.”

“Thanks,” you say, and feel that it’s not enough. “For being there for me, and for Dave. He liked you a lot. He always used to say so.”

“I liked Dave too,” Jane said. “He was a friend, and so are you. I hope you know that. I hope you understand that.”

“I… wouldn’t blame you if I wasn’t any more, but I’m glad you feel that way.”

“Of course, I would never reject you. If anything, you should be angry with me.”

“What? No, no.” You take a deep breath. “Jane, I care about you, and I’m always going to be there for you. I promise.”

Jane looks down at her tea, and you watch emotion play over her face. It’s so hard to tell what she’s thinking. “I’m going to be there for you too,” she says, finally. “That’s why… I want you to spend the night here. Upstairs, in my room.”

You stare at her, uncomprehending. “Do you mean..?”

“You shouldn’t go back to your cold little apartment, not today of all days,” she says in a rush. “And I don’t want you on _that_ couch.”

Of course.

“I… okay,”  you say, and watch the distress clear from her. “Should we… now?”

“Finish your tea,” she says, and rises. “I’m going to get your things drying. Head upstairs when you’re ready.”

You nod, and watch her go. You drink your tea slowly, letting it warm you, but even to you, you know you’re cold to the touch. Still, unmoving as steel. Once you’re done, you put your dishes in the sink to be washed later, and head upstairs.

Jane’s bedroom is neat, but feels unlived in. She only moved in recently, so it’s not surprising. You hover there, awkward until Jane rescues you and pulls the blankets -- more blanket than you’ve ever seen in one place -- back. You get into bed, and lay so you can’t see Jane change into her own sleepwear. It isn’t any more new to you than it was to her, but you still want to be respectful.

You dare to look up when she gets into bed next to you, and pulls the covers back over. “Lean on me,” she says, and you shift a little, ready to go immediately.

She’s warm against your cold skin, and it’s hard not to just wrap yourself around her until you don’t know where you end and she begins. She rubs your back and strokes her fingers through your hair. She murmurs softly, and it doesn’t take long before you start doing the one thing you promised you wouldn’t: you cry.

Your tears are silent, and your chest shakes from it. She doesn’t do anything other than comfort you, and you don’t do anything other than weep. It takes time for you to calm down, and by then, you’re so exhausted, so fed up that you’re ready to fall asleep in her chest.

“Thanks,” you mumble. “For everything.”

“You’re welcome,” Jane murmurs softly. “The time may come when I ask a favour of you."

“Whatever it is,” you promise. “You’ll get it.”

End


	12. Entry 12 - Transformers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: What’s the story behind your character’s name? Who chose it for them, and why that name?  
> Fandom: Transformers  
> Summary: What’s in a name?

When he had been called forth from the Well, the Prime had called him Asclepius. It meant, he was told, the  _ Father of Medicine,  _ in a language he didn’t recognize, but Malleus had assured him that it was from one of the many, many cultures Cybertron had touched.

It was only in later years he had learned what that meant, and was horrified by it.

At first, he had worn the name with pride. Every Cybertronian had a name, something that was uniquely theirs. A name that sprang from their very soul. As a Champion of Malleus Prime, he had never been directly given that option, but he had never minded. Again, not at first.

He had often contemplated what that meant,  _ being  _ a father. He understood, in the parlance of the culture the name had been adopted from, a father was a portion of an organic family unit. While a Prime might be considered a father or mother to their people, the Caretakers performed a more comparable role for their charges.

_ I’d like to be a Caretaker, someday,  _ he had mused then.  _ When my duty to Malleus is over. _

Medicine was easier to parse, because if there was anything he knew how to be, it was a doctor. It had been suffused within his very Spark, the Function that he had been chosen for. The Prime had called, and he had answered, the First of One Billion, on the Dawn of the First Day.

His counterpart was Balor, and he was named after the king of giants, called Fomorians, possessing an eye that caused destruction when opened, the embodiment of drought and blight. The Second of One Billion, called forth at the Dusk of the First Day, he was to bring ruin to the enemies of Cybertron. If Asclepius was the doctor, then Balor was the general.

Balor, to Asclepius, was a great hero. He defended his people against a universe that hated mechanical life. He fought against the Black Bloc Consortium and countless others, leading the Billion Sparks into the stars. His alt-mode was that of a cutter ship, with adamant windows and sharp wings. He was tall and broad, and his fields exuded strength and power, smouldering fire just hinting at the promise of violence.

Asclepius was more than just a little in love with him, and every time he departed Cybertron to go to war, his Spark ached. He had never left Cybertron as Balor had. He hadn’t even left the Palace without escort. It was too dangerous, Malleus had said. Stay here, you want for nothing.

He did, in fact, want for something, and what that was could be hard to grasp. He wanted to take care of people, certainly. He was a doctor with a single, brilliantly healthy patient. His task wasn’t to research the half-dozen terrible illnesses that could still afflict Cybertronians, or to investigate work conditions when they lost workers. It was to answer a question.

_ Can we be immortal? If so, how? _

Balor’s purpose seemed more obvious, but it was simply another question being asked:  _ how far can we go? How great can our empire become? _

It was Balor who donned a second name like a new coat of paint. In the course of his time as General, his enemies -- and sometimes his allies -- had referred to him as Megatronus, like the ancient Prime who had served as their greatest general in turn.

Megatronus, of course, had become corrupted. He had slain Solus Prime and banished many of the others from Cybertron as the first strike as a servant of Unicron. Only Augmentus Prime had been able to stop him, and it had taken her great sacrifice to save the planet and make it what it was today.

Asclepius had read all of her teachings, and they warmed his Spark. Balor, of course, had liked the nickname, and had taken it on himself.

Malleus too, had a name to contemplate, because his name meant  _ hammer.  _ A hammer was a tool -- sometimes one of violence -- a blunt instrument, unimaginative, and Malleus could not be said to be any of those things. He was good to Asclepius, passionate and gentle, kind and encouraging. Protective and comforting.

_ How could I have been so blind, then?  _ he wondered.  _ How was I that naive? _

It was Perceptor who had been clever enough to see what was happening, and brave enough to speak up. He had faced disgrace and mockery, but Asclepius had believed him then. Malleus had assured him that Perceptor was wrong. That he was mistaken. That he would commune with the great Titans to be sure.

_ Malleus was a liar. He was the blunt instrument that beat all that was of worth out of Cybertron and didn’t care that the planet bled from gaping wounds. He was a monster, and I helped him. We both helped him. _

When it was over, when Malleus was dead, and Sentinel Prime ruled Cybertron. When horrors had been done in the name of a better tomorrow, Asclepius had discarded his name. No longer would he claim to be the Father of Medicine. Instead, he would serve. He would be of use. He would repair, affix, protect.

His name was  _ Ratchet _ and he was here to make the world a better place.

End


	13. Entry 13 - FF14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Think of the experience of missing a food from home while away a long while. What happens when the time comes to taste it again? This exercise is about food and about homesickness—place that at the center of your narrative.  
> Fandom: Final Fantasy XIV  
> Summary: Home tastes like honey, peaches, and longing.  
> \--  
> This is sequelish to the Entry 7 piece. I’ve tried to avoid spoilers, but it does reference up to 3.3 in the MSQ. Best get on it, slackers.

There was much that the Warrior of Light could do for the people of Ishgard. She could battle dragons and treat with Vath. She could learn the sacred battle dance of the Vundu and coax the Mogmenders in fixing a monument meant to represent the love between man, dragon, and moogle, entwined like the three pieces of a braid.

She could make repairs to the hopeless politics in a land built on lies enough to make one question if her own homeland, so distant, had a similar dark past to that of Ul’dah and Ishgard. Who could know for certain until that day came?

The one thing she could not combat, to her great regret, was the icy, eternal cold of enforced cold on the Highlands as caused by the Fall. She didn’t require as much clothing as some. Her training in the arts of the Monk made her more resistant to cold -- a good thing too, considering half the time, the only garb she could find suitable to her was made of leather and better for swimming than fighting -- but it was not so with her companion, who shivered and stared off into space blankly more often than not.

_ I wonder if she thinks I don’t know,  _ she mused, and said aloud. “Shtola, we can go back inside if you like.”

“No,” the Scion said, and snapped her gaze -- milky white instead of bright green -- to Noire. “We’re not done here yet.”

She sighed, and nodded. “As you say.”

Y’shtola returned the gesture and turned back to her task. The merchant district of Ishgard was a busy one, far busier than it had been when she had first come to Ishgard. They had been a mysterious people and an unfriendly one. Time and effort had opened their hearts, and now, with the new order installed, all that remained was to see it through.

“--it like?”

“Hm? I’m sorry, I was just thinking.”

“I said,” Y’shtola repeated. “What was your home like, before you left it?”

“It was…” she began, and memories filtered back: her grandmother, a hand on her shoulder, showing her the correct punching stance. Her father, burdened by the twins, calling after her not to run so  _ fast  _ in the orchard. Her mother’s work, as beautiful and ephemeral as moogle fur, or the fine silky fur of her lover’s tail, the result of decades of effort, of bleeding fingers and a hunched back, the endless droning of bees in their hives as the eternal summer went on and on… “peaceful. Tranquil. Not much call for a pugilist of any repute.”

“Mm, yes,” Y’shtola said, and her gaze went distant. “Tell me something else, more personal. Something more tactile.”

“Well,” she began again. Other memories came to mind: they grew peaches in their orchard, huge and sweet. The air was full of their smell, and that which they couldn’t send to market remained with them. Everything was peaches, from the juice they drank to the desserts they ate. Mixed with honey from the hives, cream from the farms nearby, and the occasional rare bit of meat when first her grandmother, and then she, would hunt to bring them down, home tasted like peaches and honey. It felt like sticky fingers that were never quite clean enough to touch her mother’s weaving and embroidery. It sounded like the droning of bees and wind through peach trees and the twins wailing to their father for one reason or another.

It looked like green and gold and brown. It looked like a single-floor house -- and hadn’t seeing indoor stairs been odd at first, as odd as snow, as odd as deserts -- with her own bed crammed into the nursery, too small for her but too big to leave the twins alone it until they grew into their tails and horns and ridges. It looked like her mother’s weaving room, open to the sunlight so that she could work until the last bit of light burned away, taking pieces of her eyesight with it.

It smelled like her father’s baking, the pastries that he made using peaches and honey, and sometimes meat, so they could have pies instead of pounded rice.

People had loved the peaches, and hated the black-skinned, purple-eyed family that made them. There was a reason her grandmother had taught her how to fight as soon as she could. No notion if the twins had been taught too, or if they were able to take on gentler arts.

“I see it,” Y’shtola murmured, breaking her from her reverie. “Yes, I… I’m sorry, for what it’s worth.”

“Are you using the Echo on me?” she asked. “Is that why you’re asking me these questions now?”

Y’shtola turned her gaze towards her, going from unseeing to seeing so quickly it might have been imagined, but it wasn’t. “I wanted to do something for you. Not because you saved my life -- nothing so petty as all that. You met Matoya. You… contended with her, at my side and for my sake. I want to do something for you too.”

“You’ve done enough for me in return,” she replied. “Alright. Did you find anything good in there?”

“Of course I did,” the Scion said, a little smugly. “I’m nothing if not artfully trained in the arts of snooping.”

“Hmph,” she replied. “So, what did you come up with?”

“A gift for you, though it might be tricky to-- aha.” Y’shtola pulled away from her, hurrying towards the ever-expanding markets. She followed, delayed by the people who wished to greet the Warrior of Light, so casually walking among them instead of being Halone Reborn.

_ If anyone, it would be Rhalgr… _ she thought as she managed to make it to her lover’s side once more. Almost immediately, she knew what Y’shtola had found: it was pastry, thick with honey-scent, only a hint of peach beneath. What would be found here would never be as great and fresh as what had come from home, and even as her mouth watered, her heart ached.

“Noire,” Y’shtola called, and held out her hands. “For you, a taste of home.”

She accepted the gift, and bit into it. It was sweet and rich -- more honey than peach -- and made her wonder about her family: had her grandmother passed away, she had been long getting older, and even the fiercest person she knew was still incapable of eluding death forever; had her mother finally lost her eyesight, did her father need to tend to her too?; had the twins grown old and taken on their names, found gifts and talents that would carry them through; did they think of her often, or wonder if they would see her again? Everyone knew Eorzea was dangerous, so close to the Garleans and yet out of their grasp, for now.

The honey dripped onto her fingers, even as she finished it. Y’shtola was watching her keenly, and she wondered how much that had cost her.  _ Hold my image in your heart, so I don’t have to hold the stillness of you in mine. _

“Do you… like it?” Y’shtola asked, suddenly worried. “You’re awfully quiet, even for you.”

She licked her fingers quickly, and then took the Scion by the hand. She tugged her lover into one of the small niches, corners proof against the cold wind. There she nudged her up against the brick, and rubbed her nose against Y’shtola’s. Her lips were sticky-sweet as they found her beloved’s, kissing her firmly. The other woman tasted of spices -- she had been sampling, clearly, before finding what she wanted -- and it was a dance of biting and caressing and home.

"Yes,” she murmured, after a moment. “I like it a lot. Some day, when this is over, when Aymeric is secure in his power, we should visit my homeland, and I can visit yours.”

“I’d enjoy that very much,” Y’shtola agreed, and tugged at her sleeves. “Let’s go back to the Manor.”

“Yes,” she said, smiling sweetly. “Let’s.”

End


	14. Entry 14 - Transformers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: The way a person handles disappointment reveals a great deal about their values. Describe a time your character faced disappointment and how they handled it.  
> Fandom: Transformers (IDW - Dark Cybertron Arc)  
> Summary: Sometimes, your hero isn’t who you expect them to be.  
> \--  
> I didn’t want to put in too much of the conversation from the actual comic -- quotes are fine, but I didn’t want to ‘cheat’ for the prompt, but for those of you following, Skids has never given Swerve his gift, still waiting for ‘that’ moment.

“Swerve, this comm sign only had three digits in it,” Blaster said. “Look, no valid path. I’m sorry, your message won’t go through.”

_ My message… _ Swerve looked up at the communications officer, the frown on his face leaving little room for doubt. He was red and gold, and Swerve could name the mix of colours used to get each effect, making his red just that slight bit different than his own, or Rodimus’, or Magnus’. “I-- it’s got to be. It’s what he gave me.”

“Here, I’ll keep the recording,” Blaster said. “But now you have to go, other people need to use the communicator. This is our chance to finally get in contact with the rest of the Autobots, with Cybertron. Understand?”

“Yeah, I--” Swerve bobbed his head, and lowered his hand. “I understand.” Slowly, Swerve made his way out of the communications hub, pushing past the ‘bots that had been waiting for their turn. The minibot made his way back to his room, through the corridors of the ship -- his ship, past his crewmates -- the  _ Lost Light. _

Everything, from the paint on the walls to the room markers seemed duller, less golden, than before. He shuffled to a stop before a door, marked ‘42’, reached up to key in the password -- chosen solely for the charming little sequence of beeping that it made when he entered it -- and the door opened.

His room was empty, his only roommate having left him some time before, when he’d torn off his own head in response to what he was hearing, and he’d never managed to find a replacement. He’d had hopes for it, really: living with another person, playing pranks on each other, getting to know them. Sharing innermost secrets.

Red Alert hadn’t been one for secrets, or pranks, or living with Swerve, so it seemed.

_ That was supposed to change here,  _ Swerve thought to himself, staring at the numbers on his hand.  _ I was supposed to make friends. I was supposed to get to know people. That’s why I wanted to own the bar. People could come to me, talk with me and confide in me, the way Magnus did. We were supposed to share something special. Except… _

Except that people still only came to him for drinks, not advice. Everyone knew that he would talk about what he heard -- he couldn’t help it, having people confide in him was exciting -- and they’d laugh at his jokes. There was no sense of confidence, like when Rodimus and Drift would bend their heads together, murmuring softly, almost but not quite touching. No sense of budding friendship, like that between Cyclonus and  _ Tailgate,  _ of all people. If people wanted advice, they went to Rung -- oh, Primus, poor Rung -- or Drift, or Ratchet.

Swerve heaved himself up onto his berth, and reached over, taking the framed pict of Blurr off the shelf, staring at it, and as if the racer could hear him, said, “What’s your number? So I can call you and make plans. So we can be best buds and hang out. Why wouldn’t you give me the real number if you wanted to be friends?”

Stubbornly, the pict refused to answer, and Swerve had no more answers than before.

~ * ~

He came in like a breeze of pure, clean air, and Swerve couldn’t help but stare.  _ It’s him. It’s really him. Am I dreaming? Oh no, he’s coming  _ this  _ way.  _ "Quart of Engex, please. Hot. Smelting pool hot," Blurr said, his tone not impossibly fast, as some had claimed, but cool and smooth.

Swerve opened his mouth, but nothing of sense came out of it, babbling. “...love… hero… can’t believe… bar.”

Blurr frowned at him, tilting his head a little. "Or... a shot of Nightmare Fuel if you're out of the pink stuff."

Swerve let out a high-pitched whine.  _ It’s him. I can’t believe it’s him. I’ve had two Primes and the Enforcer sit in my bar but it’s nothing compared to this. I love you, Blurr. _

"Swerve's cause of death,” Skids murmured into his drink. “Hero worship."

Blurr stared at him a moment longer, and walked away, shaking his head. Swerve could barely hear his words over the sheer level of excitement bubbling through the entirety of his frame.

Whatever he did say, affected Skids enough to get up and follow him.

_ I should have gotten him to sign something, or finish his comm frequency, or something-- _

~ * ~

“Hey.” Skids wasn’t as fast as the racer, so it took time once Blurr had stopped to catch up with him. “Blurr.”

“You’re Skids, the theoretician.” Blurr nodded, and smiled briefly. “I’m impressed, you’re a hero, even if you are… bumming it around on the Lost Light.” He thumbed at the bar. “Autobot causes aren’t my speed any more, if you know what I mean.”

“That bot’s name is Swerve, and he’s a big fan of yours,” Skids said, ignoring it. He’d listened to every treatise Swerve had committed to the spoken word about the racer, and so far, he couldn’t help but feel disappointed at his attitude. “You don’t have an excuse, you should be able to remember him.”

Blurr frowned. “I have millions of fans. Billions, in fact. Your friend? Thinks he knows me. Thinks  _ I  _ know  _ him.  _ I don’t. You barely see them after a while.”

“Swerve’s a hero,” Skids snapped. “He’s saved lives, everyone’s lives, by being a metallurgist  _ and  _ a bartender. He’s a good friend, and he deserves more respect than to be forgotten by his idol.”

Blurr vented slowly, and spread his hands. “What do you want from me, Skids? An apology? For him to cling to me and babble for another ten minutes?”

“No,” Skids said, thinking quickly. “I want you to give him your comm sign. Your real one, and if he wants to talk to you… you should listen.”

Blurr was silent for a time, and finally nodded. “I need something to write on.”

Skids took out a data slate from his subspace, and keyed it on. Blurr’s face, with the winning, put-on smile he’d used for photo shoots, stared back. The real Blurr pursed his lips. “Autograph it too.”

“Fine.” Blurr subspaced a marking pen and scrawled his name at the bottom, and carefully, in clear numbers, wrote his comm sign. “Happy?”

“When my friends are happy,” Skids said absently, and studied it. “Perfect. Now all I have to do is find the right time to give this to him. Things get busy on the  _ Lost Light.  _ You know, Autobot things.”

“Yeah,” Blurr said, looking away. “I know.”

End


	15. Entry 15 - WH40K

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: How much time does your character spend in natural settings, and how do they feel about it?  
> Fandom: WarHammer 40K - Alternate Universe  
> Summary: When he had been very young, he had been told there were no green places left in the world.  
> \--  
> There’s supposed to be more, but I haven't gotten around to it yet. I want to develop this AU idea more -- spoiler, someone murdered the Emperor with fulgurite, leaving the Primarchs were they were indefinitely until someone fetched them -- but not at 2 am. You know an idea’s terrible when you actually use a plot point from Vulkan Lives.

When he had been very young, Sejanus had told him that there were no green places left in the world, and he’d believed him. How could he not, the one who had found him when he’d been but a tiny baby, fallen from the sky in a capsule emblazoned with XVI on the side.

Instead of about trees, birds, and clear skies, his caretaker had taught him how to read the smudged yellow sky above to know when the rain would come, pouring stinging water onto unwary, unprotected navigators of the crumbling hive city of Cthonia Primus. He taught him how to scavenge in the ruins of buildings left behind when the Great Darkness, a story passed from parent to child for five thousand years, had passed over them. He taught him how to survive, despite not being very old himself.

He had grown swiftly, and Sejanus and the others had not. Sejanus led a gang, called the Luna, of about a dozen youths and about the same number of those both older and younger. Some, like Garviel Loken, had only been three or four years old when he had been found, and was still younger than he was, despite how much time had passed. Others, like Lakisha Ruin, were older, and had children of their own that would join the gang in time. Lakisha had nursed him in his childhood, Sejanus had told him. Until he was old enough to eat the stringy, fibrous vegetables he’d earned or stolen from the inner parts of the city.

Sejanus had never told him how he earned the vegetables, but he knew. He knew and Garviel knew and Eleanor Abaddon, his second, knew. All of them knew because no matter how quiet Sejanus thought he was, they could hear him cry when he came home, nursing his bruises while Lakisha cooked and scolded.

He promised himself that Sejanus would never again weep and ache for their sake, and so he began to work. Sejanus had raised him, cared for him, taught him to the very edge of his ability when he’d read voraciously and asked for more, grown from infant to child to near-adult in the time it had taken Sejanus to go from gangly teenager to young adult, going from Sejanus’ child to Sejanus’ sibling in a breathtakingly small number of years. Sejanus had even named him:

His name was Horus, and he came from above.

~ * ~

“Yes,” Lakisha said as she mended a rent in a shirt. “A long time ago, this was a mining colony. Mind your fingers.”

Horus nodded, and focused on his work. Everything he learned, he learned quickly, so long as he did it right. Failure, or incomprehension, jangled like nerves prickling, like danger, like discomfort and fear. Horus hated it, and every time, vowed not to fail again. At the moment, he was learning how to fix his own clothing. It was an important skill, Sejanus insisted, and so if he thought it was important, Horus would learn.

The others rarely fixed their own clothing, and most didn’t know how to sew. This was, Sejanus said, because they had other jobs that Lakisha couldn’t do, but Horus was young, and so he still had time to learn.

Most of the rips and tears were on Sejanus’ clothing, and it made Horus all the more determined to learn everything he could.

“So, what are mines like?”

The older woman considered, and toyed with the necklace she wore -- an old, faded thing with little in the way of markings. “They’re holes in the ground. Big, deep holes, where people go digging for things. Treasures from within. The whole of the world was full of them once, but there stopped being treasures down there, so they stopped. Went away. Left us here, or the people who had babies that had babies that became us.”

“...slower than I did, probably,” Horus said, ducking his head. Lakisha reached out, gripping his shoulder. Her fingers, to his reckoning, were thin.

“You’re special, Horus. We’ve known that since you came from the stars on the wings of eagles. Sejanus is the idealist, but you’re the dreamer.” Lakisha smiled. “Between the two of you, I know Sharim will grow up well.”

_ On the wings of eagles…  _ Horus repeated the words in his mind, and they resonated within him deeply. He peered at her necklace and realized, with a start, it was meant to be a bird.

“Where did you get that?” Horus asked, indicating the necklace. Lakisha looked down, and smiled a little.

“From Sejanus, he traded it to me in exchange for feeding you,” she replied. “I didn’t want to take it because it’s all he has, but he insisted. One day, I’ll give it back.”

Horus nodded, and bent his head to his task once more.  _ I have to get the gang out of here. If there were places to dig holes, that means there was soil, like the gardens of the inner city. I know Sejanus has us save seeds, so if there’s anywhere to plant them, it’ll be out there. _

~ * ~

In the year Sejanus turned nineteen, Horus convinced the gang to move outside the city. He had spent weeks sneaking through gang territory -- theirs, ever-shrinking; and others, growing but barren -- to get to the walls of the hive city. He’d nearly gotten caught a time or two -- he’d won the fights he’d been in, even if Sejanus scolded him, his voice high and thin and hollow -- but he had faith that the land outside the city held what he was looking for.

It wasn’t much to look at: the sky was still smudged, but grey and thin blue instead of yellow or brown, and there was a lot of scrubland. Sometimes, if Horus listened very carefully, he could hear animals; dogs, he thought.  _ If we can find the calm ones, we can tame them, and help us with the hunting. _

He was big, now. As big as he believed he was going to get, though a part of him longed for more. He was always hungry, in his stomach and in his mind. His heart, too, sometimes, when he dreamt at night, he would dream of the moon above, full and silver-bright. He would see things, white surfaces, sometimes people with obscured faces. Sometimes, he saw markings like the ones on his pod. Sometimes, he saw eagles.

_ I don’t know if the answers I’m looking for are out here, but there’s land, and there’s water, and we’re better off out here than back in there. _

The gang wars had been hard on everyone. They’d lost some people, though not Sejanus, not Eleanor, not Garviel, and not Lakisha. Sejanus had taken each loss as a personal failure, and he was eating less than ever. Horus knew he had to move the gang soon, or they’d lose their leader.

_ I think I could lead, if Eleanor didn’t want it more, but I can’t lose  _ him.  _ I can’t lose Sejanus. _

Horus worried as he ran, worrying about his friend, his brother and caretaker, as he did so. As he always did, he stopped by his pod, buried under years of corrosion and decay, almost one with the surrounding city wreckage. He touched over the symbols, XVI, on one side, willing the pod to give him some sign that what he intended to do was right.

“Well well, what have we here?” The voice belonged to Aximand, the leader of the Shadow gang. He was big, of a height with Horus, and his nose was broken and poorly set, courtesy of Eleanor, whom he’d once tried to recruit and been rejected as only a girl who carried around a metal prybar could -- which was to say, violently. With him was his second, Tarik Torgaddon, and their third, Luca Sedirae. All three were dangerous, and Horus only gave himself about even odds, even with his own burgeoning strength. They ate better than the Luna did, for what little that was worth.

“I’m just passing through,” Horus said, trying to keep his voice calm. “I’m not in your territory.”

“You’re wrong,” Aximand said, taking a step forward, the expression on his face ugly and alien to Horus, despite their supposed resemblance. “This is our turf now. We just acquired it. New lines.”

“You’re not being fair,” Horus protested. “You can’t even protect anything this far out, and there’s nothing worthwhile here.”

“Nothing except people,” Aximand countered. “Look, you have to know that Sejanus is dying. He picked something up from his ‘patrons’. Now no one will touch him, and if they don’t touch, he doesn’t get paid. He doesn’t eat. You don’t eat.”

Horus thought of the hollow, empty look in Sejanus’ eyes, and snarled, “you don’t know that. You can’t know that. You’re lying.”

“Am I?” Aximand taunted. “Abaddon was stupid enough to stick by him, fine, but you should know the truth. He’s going to die and then your gang will dissolve. Leave now, get a better place than kids and dressmakers.”

Horus lowered his head, and charged, leading with his shoulder. Aximand flew a clear three meters before crashing down against some of the debris. Immediately, Tarik and Luca jumped him.

The fight was dirty and brutal, and even if they couldn’t put him down, Horus still went home, limping and crusted with blood, some of which was his own. Eleanor met him at the door, peering out from the slat in the wall.

“Hsst,” she said. “Hsst. Horus. What the hell happened to you?”

“Got in a fight,” Horus said, smiling, and then winced as his lip pulled. “Figured it was obvious.”

“Don’t let Sejanus see you,” she hissed. “Hurry up.”

“He’s not here, is he?” Horus asked, worried. Aximand’s words returned to him. “I thought he was… out.”

“He’s sick,” Abaddon said, and pulled the door open enough to let him in. She shrugged, and her high ponytail shrugged with her. “Been laying in bed. Lakisha thinks it’s because he doesn’t eat enough.”

“He doesn’t,” Horus said.. “He stints too much.”

“I know, but try telling  _ him  _ that.” Abaddon worried her lower lip. “Get cleaned up, and hurry. He doesn’t need to see this.”

Horus nodded, and threaded his way through the gang’s holding. It was the basement of a collapsed building, one of the old warehouses by Lakisha’s reckoning. That meant they had water, a little, and shelter from the rains. Horus had his own room, something that had likely been a maintenance closet in better days, but it had the rare treat of a pipe he could use to wash the blood from his face and hands.

_ I can’t do much about my clothes,  _ he thought grimly.  _ Maybe in this light, it’ll just look like grease stains. _ As he washed his hands, something glittered in the water, something silver and moon-bright. He brought his hands up, and saw nothing but rough pink palms.  _ I’m really losing it. _

Once done, he dried his hands on his blanket, and slipped out to see Sejanus. Sejanus had an old office for his room, a small one but it was private, and he shared it with Eleanor, and had for three years. What they did there was of some speculation, since Sejanus usually came home and went to sleep, barely waking to eat the vegetables he’d brought in, but Horus believed that comfort was the most important thing Abaddon could offer at a time like this.

“Hey,” Horus called softly, standing at the door. “It’s me.”

“You got into a fight,” replied the Luna gang chieftain, and Horus sighed. “Come in. Don’t walk on glass shards around me. I hate it.”

“I was,” Horus admitted, and moved to his side. Lying amid piles of thin blankets and old insulation, Sejanus looked fragile. He took his caretaker’s hand in his and held it gently. “I’m sorry, I was out at the site.”

“You really think we can leave the city?” Sejanus murmured, making a dismissive gesture with his other hand. “We know where food comes from here.”

“We do,” Horus said, “but it’s not a good place. If we can control our own food, have as much water as we like, have more things for Garviel to read and write on--”

“You too, you need to read too,” Sejanus said, and gazed up at Horus. “Do you still have them? The dreams?”

“Yes,” Horus said. “Almost every night now.”

“Tell me about them.”

Horus nodded, licked his lips, and began. “I’m somewhere bright and beautiful. Everything is white. There are people wearing white coats and gloves and hats. They’re talking to someone, someone big, someone gold. I think they’re talking about me, and the others.”

“Are they talking about anything good?”

Horus hesitated, as he always did, because in the dream, there had been a rush of air and cold and raw noise. There was screaming, and the sound of metal ripping. The figure in gold had collapsed, still and unmoving while a figure stood over them.

_ You would have ruined everything. _

“Yes,” he promised. “They were saying that there was a better life out there for me. For all of us.”

“Good,” Sejanus said. “End of the week, we’ll all go together. No more gang wars. No more fighting. Just a place of our own.”

Horus nodded. “A place of our own.” Considering a moment, he climbed onto the pile, and lied down with Sejanus, drawing him carefully into his arms. He felt hot to the touch, and that worried him. More so, when his caretaker didn’t protest, and only remained there limply. “Sejanus, I have a question.”

“Go ahead,” Sejanus murmured. “Though I think I only have one in me before I fall asleep again. I want to catch your dreams.”

“Where did you get the necklace you gave Lakisha?”

Sejanus paused for such a long time that Horus was worried he had fallen asleep. “My mother,” he said finally. “It had been hers, and her mother’s before hers. It came from before the Darkness.”

“What is it?” Horus asked. “A bird?”

“She told me, though I don’t know how she knew,” Sejanus said. “An eagle.”

~ * ~

In the end, the move was good for Sejanus. He wasn’t dying, as far as Horus knew, and being away from the city improved his health. There was more to eat in the scrublands -- plants, and a fair bit of dog meat -- than there was in the city, it just took effort.

Instinctively, Horus knew how to hunt. He knew how to stalk the feral dogs, attack them without damaging them too badly. He could break their necks bare-handed if he needed to. Sometimes, he did.

They had managed to work the soil, and using the water from the cleared reservoir, they could water the plants regularly. All that remained was the wait.

Horus wondered, sometimes, what the other two gangs had done with Luna territory, and found that he mostly didn’t care. Not when he was outside, staring up at the sky, breathing in air that was cleaner than anything he’d ever experienced in the city, working soil that would provide for them year after year. It was a good time to be alive.

It was nightfall when they came, trying to hide their movements: the Shadow gang, all of it, and the Silver gang, led by Targhost, who believed in gods, Marthim, who was easily distracted by a pretty face, so long as that pretty face belonged to a boy, and the Twins, who looked nothing alike and weren’t even brothers.

The Luna gang -- even Garviel, even Lakisha -- had hurried out to meet them, all bearing old pipes and rebar.

“Get out of here,” Sejanus said. “This is our land. We aren’t even part of the city.”

“The city is dying,” Aximand said, his cheeks hollow. “The buildings are collapsing.”

“They’ve always been collapsing, you stupid arse,” Abaddon said, hefting her prybar. “What makes this any different.”

“Faster this time, some people say there have been tremors,” Aximand replied. “We need somewhere else to go.”

“If you want to merge, I’d have to take a vote,” Sejanus said slowly. “But you can’t just take our home. We built it. It’s ours.”

“Let’s just see if you can hold it,” Aximand said, and lunged. The fight was brutal and dirty, and everyone was needed to help. The Luna were outmatched, but they had Horus. He was stronger than any of them, and he had to be careful not to snap bones while punching.

The dust they kicked up filled their air, floating up towards the sky in entreating fingers.

Dealing a blow to Voy with his elbow, Horus looked up at the sky, despairing.  _ I thought things were supposed to be better. Where is the better life that you promised? _

The dust trembled in midair, freezing. Horus stopped, ignoring the blow to the side Voy struck him with. One by one, the fighting stopped at more and more noticed, until even Aximand and Sejanus, panting and glaring at each other, took notice.

When all were still, the sky split open, dropping down a huge building -- vessel -- in the middle of the Luna’s new home. Horus stared wordlessly, drinking in the details of the bone-white ship, its graceful lines, and the almost humming noise it made in the air.

_ It doesn’t look much like my pod, but surely this must be the eagle?  _ Horus thought, his mind racing. For a moment, he felt something race after it, a shadow over water.  _ I’ve never seen anything like it, not in any of the books. It’s amazing. _

The ship split open down the middle, and a half-dozen figures disembarked. They were tall and slender, wearing armour that seemed to be more grown than sculpted. It was a special kind of bone, Horus knew instinctively, not metal.

[Wraithbone, actually,] said a voice inside his head, and his mind throbbed. He could see it, the facility, white and clean and moon-bright. [You’re the one I’ve been searching for. Good, I’m glad it didn’t take that long. Come with us, and be away from this… place.]

“No…” Horus said softly. “Not without my friends.”

[A more loving group, I have never seen,] said the voice again. [How many?]

Horus thought hard, and in the end, he could only say, aloud to the deeply confused listeners to only one half of a conversation, “All of them.”

[Very well.]

[Farseer,] said one of the other figures, as though they didn’t care Horus could hear them. [You only said one. Your father--]

[I am in command,] the first voice said. [My Exalted Father will simply have to manage.] One of the figures curled a hand, and said to everyone, [I am Farseer Selene Uthlran, and in the name of Craftworld Uthlwe, I bid you come with me.]

As though there were no actual choice in the matter, the figure gestured again, and all three gangs, from the littlest of the largest, were teleported away, into the great unknown.

End


	16. Entry 16 - Homestuck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Write an encyclopedia article for your character (or a related concept, like a place, organization, ancestor, or historical event) as though they are reasonably well-known. You may wish to study the oracular voices of existing encyclopedias. When you're finished, you could consider porting it to the wiki.  
> Fandom: Homestuck  
> Summary: Wikipedia entry for Alpha-verse Dave Strider.  
> \--  
> This originally started as an idea to "troll" the person running the challenge, but when it turned out to be a significant amount of work, I realized that I had indeed trolled myself.

**Dave Strider**

From Wikipedia, the free Encyclopedia

 

** **

 

 

 **David M. “Dave” Strider** (born December 3rd, 1985) is an American artist, filmaker, and revolutionary ~~OBEY~~ . He rode to Earth on a meteor, where he was found by mystical lizards that raised him as one of their own ~~END HIM~~.

After beginning his creative career ~~CEASE REPRODUCTION~~ with a webcomic called [_Sweet Bro and Hella Jeff_](http://www.mspaintadventures.com/sweetbroandhellajeff/) _,_ Strider expanded his creative efforts towards turning the comic into a series of movies ~~REMAIN ASLEEP~~ , each more incomprehensible than the last. Having a large number of additional interests, he began producing JPEG artifact products, such as the [Sord](http://cdn.mspaintadventures.com/storyfiles/hs2/01827_2.gif) and the [Unreal Air](http://cdn.mspaintadventures.com/storyfiles/hs2/01829_2.gif), which were incredibly shitty in quality and unbelievably popular ~~RESISTANCE IS FUTILE~~. Throughout his career, he has always claimed to be fighting against a [greater cause](http://www.mspaintadventures.com/?s=6&p=006764) ~~LIAR~~ , that of the ‘Batterwitch’ LEAVE MY PAWN ALONE. In addition, he has harboured a particular closeness with the American actor, Ben Stiller ~~DEATH BECOMES HIM~~.

Strider is a member of the revolutionary movement ~~END THEM~~ against the secret underpinnings of a fascist government ~~THE CONDESCE COMES~~ , his methods approximately as incomprehensible as his movies. His films have grossed more than one hundred million dollars globally ~~SHEEP ALL OF YOU~~ , partially related to a rereleased, high definition version of the movies ~~HAHAHA~~. Throughout his career, he has received plaudits and accolades for his directorial vision, while creating controversy with some of his actions ~~BLEED YOUR MUTANT BLOOD~~.

  1. Early Life
  2. Directorial Debut
  3. Personal Life
  4. Filmography
  5. Awards and Honours
  6. Controversy
  7. Sources and Footnotes
  8. External Links



 

**Early Life**

David M. Strider was born on December 3, 1985 in [ Houston, Texas ](http://mspaintadventures.wikia.com/wiki/Dave_Strider) . He claims that he flew to Earth on a meteor [1] , securing his place as the second most badass human being to ever exist [citation needed] . He further claims that he was raised by crocodiles [2] , who taught him such skills as [ art ](http://mspaintadventures.wikia.com/wiki/Sweet_Bro_and_Hella_Jeff), amateur rap [3], and photography [4]. Sources tracking his name and likeness, however, note that he went to public school in Houston, and did not complete his post-secondary education. He considers his childhood to be “unusual, but completely rad” and speaks of it fondly, if not extremely vaguely.

Strider displayed an early interest in wanting to be famous and at the centre of attention [citation needed], but lacked the talent to become an actor, instead mumbling to himself incoherent ideas which became an incredibly popular, if not nonsensical, webcomic. At the tender age of thirteen, he began posting his webcomic online, attracting hundreds of readers, and Sweet Bro and Hella Jeff was born. In late 2011, Strider became obsessed with the notion that Crocker Corporation, an affiliate of [ General Mills ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Betty_Crocker) , was run by an alien queen using the name Betty Crocker. This was further complicated by the fact that there is a Crocker family serving as part of the board of directors of said company, though none claim to be aliens. When his webcomic failed to bring him the attention he so desperately craved, he set about putting two of his favourite actors, [ Ben Stiller ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ben_Stiller) and [ Owen Wilson ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Owen_Wilson) in the spotlight as the titular characters, and the first SBaHJ movie was released in 2005.

While Strider claims to have been raised in the school of badassery [5], he appears to have attended a public school in Houston, where he received multiple suspensions for acting out, getting into fights, and refusing to do any kind of work [citation needed]. When he finished high school, he did not attend college, preferring instead to work on his burgeoning webcomic empire.

 

**Directorial Debut**

Despite a lack of experience previous, Strider began work on his first script for SBaHJ in 2003. It went through multiple iterations to hone it, though as far as anyone can tell, no editing. It was released in 2005 to critical reception, and overwhelming fan support, where people turned out in droves. It is rumoured to have given multiple professional critics cancer, though the fact that it was responsible for [ Gene Siskel ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gene_Siskel) ’s brain cancer is apocrypha. It was helped that stars Ben Stiller, Owen Wilson, and the surprising casting of [ Donald Glover ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Donald_Glover) as Geromy drastically helped launch a film making career that was as baffling as it was successful.

From that first film, numerous others spawned, each more bizarre than the last. Some fans claim that they contain subliminal messages, relating to his crusade against the so-called Batterwitch [6]. Release of the movies’ names and even order would prove to be impossible to track, owing to the bizarre, haphazard nature of their distribution [7]. These movies also spawned an entire line of JPEG artifact merchandise which, while as poor quality as the movies, only served to make Strider more famous and rich.

 

**Personal Life**

Strider’s claims to his parentage aside, his personal life is more to the public record: he is close friends with Ben Stiller [citation needed], and they can frequently be seen in each others’ company at movie premieres. Additionally, he is close friends with the award-winning author Rose Lalonde [8], of The Complacency of the Learned fame. He also claims to have a son, which he does not name, only indicating that he is from the future, and thus is not yet born [9].

Strider is a trained fighter with a sword, and has used his skill in the past to defend others, though it wasn’t enough to save him [ in the end ](http://www.mspaintadventures.com/?s=6&p=006774).

~~DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE~~

 

**Filmography**

_Main Article:_ [ _Dave Strider filmography_ ](http://mspaintadventures.wikia.com/wiki/File:Hooly_SHIT,_wear_a_MOVIE%3F%3F%3F%3F%3F%3F%3F%3F%3F%3F%3F)

Strider has directed six movies, exclusively related to _Sweet Bro and Hella Jeff_.

 

**Awards and Honours**

Strider has not received any awards, claiming a biased film community, and a cool, disinterested air of not caring whether or not he receives awards for his directing. Some of the actors in his films, namely Daniel Glover, have received awards for their performances [10].

 

**Controversy**

Strider’s first movie premiere, a star-studded gathering, was marred by an incident of violence in which Jane Crocker, heiress to the Crocker Corporation name and brand, was [ shot ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1159521/chapters/2373782) by an assailant within the ballroom, grievously injuring the then-nine year old girl. Fortunately, thanks to quick intervention by [ Ms. Lalonde ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1159521/chapters/2377239), her life was saved.

Strider’s part in the story would come when he caught the assassin, cutting them in half with his katana, preventing further questioning. A suit was rumoured, but never confirmed, between the director and Crocker Corp, largely in part with Ms. Crocker’s desire to keep things private.

 

Sources and Footnotes

1-  [ http://www.mspaintadventures.com/?s=6&p=003790](http://www.mspaintadventures.com/?s=6&p=003790)  
2-   [ http://www.mspaintadventures.com/?s=6&p=004673](http://www.mspaintadventures.com/?s=6&p=004673)  
3-   [ http://www.mspaintadventures.com/?s=6&p=002194](http://www.mspaintadventures.com/?s=6&p=002194)  
4-   [ http://www.mspaintadventures.com/?s=6&p=003742](http://www.mspaintadventures.com/?s=6&p=003742)  
5-   [ http://www.mspaintadventures.com/?s=6&p=002970](http://www.mspaintadventures.com/?s=6&p=002970)  
6-   [ http://www.mspaintadventures.com/?s=6&p=006760](http://www.mspaintadventures.com/?s=6&p=006760)  
7-   [ http://www.mspaintadventures.com/?s=6&p=006762](http://www.mspaintadventures.com/?s=6&p=006762)  
8-   [ http://www.mspaintadventures.com/?s=6&p=006761](http://www.mspaintadventures.com/?s=6&p=006761)  
9-   [ http://www.mspaintadventures.com/?s=6&p=006763](http://www.mspaintadventures.com/?s=6&p=006763)  
10-  http://www.mspaintadventures.com/?s=6&p=006430

  
External Links

 

[ MS Paint Adventures - Homestuck](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dQw4w9WgXcQ)  
[ MS Paint Adventures - Wiki](https://www.google.ca/url?sa=t&rct=j&q=&esrc=s&source=web&cd=1&cad=rja&uact=8&ved=0ahUKEwikyuuPxvnNAhVH7YMKHbVQAeQQyCkIHTAA&url=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3DAW3aCuxY1DY&usg=AFQjCNGYqrc3oWdwjrVRc1N4TrA2bA3s_w&sig2=XhRMcztmrCf6pb0D3WXHqw&bvm=bv.127178174,d.amc)  
[ Sweet Bro and Hella Jeff - Webcomic](https://www.google.ca/url?sa=t&rct=j&q=&esrc=s&source=web&cd=1&cad=rja&uact=8&sqi=2&ved=0ahUKEwinmPGbxvnNAhVH8IMKHW9TB38QyCkIHjAA&url=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3Dz6azSHCHwPc&usg=AFQjCNFU-zJrfMBS1VM2MyTSsmHzGFu3oQ&sig2=DK-yov_s9nVQKB6x0K1_hA&bvm=bv.127178174,d.amc)  
[ Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia](https://docs.google.com/document/d/1hYYgASpyAcJI5Exq2PjTI0E9eyypkqQNfc3CAKEG6wU/edit)  
Archive of Our Own (AO3)


	17. Entry 17 - Transformers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Does stress affect your character’s ability to make good decisions? In a high-pressure situation, what guides your character’s choices?  
> Fandom: Transformers  
> Summary: A distress signal calls the Lost Light to an unusual world, in need of an unusual evacuation.  
> \--  
> This prompt has been brought to you by Stress - Jim’s Big Ego, and shipping Megatron/Rodimus as pitch as the darkest night.

__ I'm addicted to stress, that's the way that I get things done,  
__ If I'm not under pressure then I sleep too long,  
__ And I hang around like a bum,  
~ * ~

_ Now _

“Woooooohoooooo!” He could feel the lava bubbling up behind him, melting the edges of his tires as he sped to keep ahead of the heat.

_ Lava doesn’t race, it sort of oozes,  _ Perceptor had said.  _ There’s no logical reason why you’ll ever need to outrun it. _

“Logic has never had a place on this trip,” Rodimus whispered to himself, pouring on more speed. His passengers, small, blue aliens dressed in white -- mostly -- and red -- occasionally -- screamed in high-pitched voices and clutched to each other. They were small, even compared to other aliens, and fit inside him in a haphazard heap. “Shh, shh, it’ll be--” He turned sharply, his tires screeching in a way that did nothing to reassure his charges of their safety.

[Rodimus, stop fooling around and get out of there,] Megatron said, his voice crackling over the comm. The heat was making it hard to keep in contact and, for all he knew, the rest of the rescue team could be dead or gone. [Make for the evacuation zone.]

[Pretty sure the evacuation zone is under a foot of lava,] Rodimus replied, turning sharply to avoid molten metal sheeting across the road. [Everything on fire, if you hadn’t noticed. We can’t all be a series of space tubes.]

[That doesn’t even make any sense!] Megatron cried, and the comm became a wave of static. [--listening?!]

_ Nope,  _ he thought, and if he had a mouth in his alt-mode, he’d be smiling.

~ * ~

__ I think I'm goin' nowhere, and that makes me nervous.  
__ Everybody's out to get me but I feel alright,  
__ Everybody's out to get me but I feel alright,  
__ Everybody's out to get me but I feel alright,  
__ Everybody's thinkin' 'bout me!  
~ * ~

_ One hour ago… _

“Captains,” Blaster said, and two forms, unalike in everything, including dignity, turned to him. Over the past year, he’d become used to it. “Distress signal from a nearby planet.”

“Let’s hear it, Blaster,” Megatron said, leaning against the command throne. It was Rodimus’ turn to sit in it, practicing his best ‘serious Captain face’.

The message was a garble of alien voices, high-pitched and urgent. It took a moment to unscramble the signal, run through dozens of algorithms to determine approximate language, syntax, and meaning.

When he did so, it was almost exclusively screaming anyway.

“Please… please help us… Gar--” The voice broke down, and rose a few moments later. “--on fire.”

“Planet exploding, Autobots in danger,” Rodimus mumbled. Megatron glanced at him sharply. “How old’s the message?”

“Minutes,” Blaster said, half turning. “But if it’s on fire… you’d have to be Blurr to outrun that.”

“Rodimus is not going down there,” Megatron said, cutting him off. “There’s almost no chance they’ll survive if it’s that severe.”

“Well, I do remember you  _ giving up  _ really easily before,” Rodimus said casually, and the whole bridge went silent. The  _ Lost Light’s  _ vents whooshed and whirled, recycling gasses throughout the ship, keeping it safe and stable.

Megatron gripped the command throne tightly. “Excuse me?”

“You’re giving up,” Rodimus repeated. “They sent this minutes ago. No reason we can’t get an emergency team going first, and then an evacuation team to pick us up. Anyone can outrun fire if they’re motivated enough.”

“I don’t think--” Magnus began.

Megatron cut him off sharply, gaze boring into the back of Rodimus’ head as he leaned down. His voice was a dangerous whisper as he said, “and are you, in fact, motivated enough? To go down there and potentially get yourself killed for strangers, leaving your quest to find the Knights of Cybertron unfulfilled?”

Rodimus looked up at him, and smirked. “Sure. Aren’t you?”

~ * ~

__ It's the little things that get you,  
__ It's the little things that get you when you work in addiction.  
__ It's the little things that get you,  
_ It's the little things that get you,  
_ __ It's the little things that get you when you work in addiction.

~ * ~

_ Fifty minutes ago… _

“I spo-tic with my little op-tic, something that begins with m.” Rodimus peered down at the mushrooms, admiring their gold and red colouring. “I’ll give you a hint, their other names rhymes with none buy.”

[Rodimus, pay attention.] Megatron’s voice sounded in his ear. [If the warning was as dire as you believe, there could be a severe forest fire close to your location. Planetary scans indicate heat rising not far from your location.]

“Well, here it’s pretty boring,” Rodimus said. “Is the evacuation team ready?”

[They’re still getting ready, but they believe they’ll be prepared soon, assuming there’s something or someone to evacuate. I assume the planet is… organic.]

Rodimus could imagine the frown on Megatron’s face, and smiled to himself as he walked by the bushes, poking at one of them. “Nah, no real technology here. Just trees, mushrooms, and--”

“Ahh! Monster!” cried a soft voice from below him. Rodimus looked down to see a group of blue and white aliens, tiny even compared to humans, and some of the other races he’d contended with in his time. “Stay away!”

“Hey, you asked for my help,” Rodimus said, and the sound of his voice, booming compared to their low volume, caused them to scatter in confusion. Glancing around, he scooped up the sole alien that was blue and red in his hand, and brought them closer. “Blaster, how’s that translation program coming?”

[Almost there, Captain,] Blaster said, and the data pulse hit him, tingling down his spinal strut.. [You didn’t exactly give me a lot of time to work on it.]

“Hey, what can I say?” Rodimus said, testing it. “Fire bad for people who aren’t me.”

“You… heard our message?” the alien in his hand said, and if Rodimus had to hazard a guess, he was male-frame. “Oh, thank you. Gargamel is insane! He has always hated us, but now he goes too far.”

“Tell me about it, but you might want to hurry,” Rodimus said. “As I understand it, you don’t have much time.”

“No,” the alien agreed. “I am the Patriarch of my people.” He gestured down to the other, milling aliens. “Gargamel is an evil wizard. He hates us, and tries to kill us often. This time, he’s set off a terrible spell that is turning the land into fire.”

“Can you show me where?” Rodimus asked. When the alien nodded, he said. “Let me transform, and I can carry you, and anyone else you need evacuated.”

“Trans… form?” the alien repeated, and Rodimus set him down, then stepped away from the mushroom forest.

He transformed into his alt mode, and flashed his headlights, projecting his voice out from his speakers. “Everybody on board the Rodmobile.”

The aliens cried out with alarm, and then amazement as he opened his doors, allowing them to pile in.  _ There are so many of them, and they’re hard to tell apart,  _ Rodimus mused. One was wearing a flower, another a paintbrush, and still another a kind of very old writing implement. The Patriarch climbed in, maneuvering themselves near Rodimus’ steering wheel.

“We thank you, our village isn’t very large, but it’s all we have. Had, now. How is this transformation possible? Is it magic?”

“The magic of being awesome,” Rodimus said. “When they’re done, just point me in the right direction.” He considered. “Hey, are all of the ones with white legs male-frame? And the blue legged one is female-frame?”

“Yes,” the Patriarch replied. “We have few women. It isn’t… necessary, for our people.”

“So, you’re a race of aliens that are almost identical except for a couple of identifying factors, you’re led by a blue and red guy, and you’ve got one female frame for hundreds of male frames?” Rodimus repeated. “Isn’t that weird?”

“We don’t think of it. Isn’t it weird to turn into something else?”

“Nah,” Rodimus said. “It’s awesome.”

“I see,” the alien replied, but clearly didn’t. “We’re ready.”

Rodimus shut his doors and revved his engine, provoking gasps of alarm and excitement. “Then let’s roll out.”

~ * ~

__ I love to work, I love to run, I love to play real hard.  
__ I love to steal little things from the grocery store,  
_ Like a piece of bubble gum, or sometimes I just stick my thumb in a peach,  
_ __ And leave it there.

~ * ~

_ Forty minutes ago… _

Megatron paced the bridge, tension rolling off his large, blocky form in waves. To the Decepticons, this would have been a sign that something was very, very wrong, and someone was about to lose their head because of it. For the most part, Decepticons had a better sense of self-preservation than the Autobots, at least when it came to their leader’s moods, both good and bad.

The Autobots, being fundamentally good people for the most part, were foolish enough to want to try to ease that pressure.

“You should sit down,” Magnus said, and Megatron turned his baleful glare on the ex-Enforcer. Magnus took it with remarkable aplomb, and continued. “His signal is still strong, and moving at a rapid pace towards the hot zone. I’m certain he’ll be fine.”

“He shouldn’t be down there alone,” Megatron snapped. “We should have made him go with a team.”

“There wasn’t time,” Magnus said. “It’s against all rules and protocol, but that’s what Rodimus  _ does.  _ Go against protocol and come out lucky.”

“He’s a ‘chancer’,” Blaster added, attracting their attention to him. “Gets by on the seat of his aft.”

“It’s not an acceptable way to run a ship,” Megatron growled, and resumed his pacing. “Or an evacuation.”

“It’s worked so far, for certain values of work,” Magnus muttered. “He’s turned certain defeat into amazing success, sometimes by only the thinnest margin.”

“I’m well aware of the appearance of failure,” Megatron said. “Signal?”

“Strong,” Blaster assured him. “Very strong--”

A shrieking noise filled the air, and everyone turned to look at Blaster. “What is that?” Megatron cried.

“I don’t--” Blaster fiddled desperately with the console. “Something’s happening. We lost him right by that tower.”

“Tower? Megatron demanded, stalking towards him. “What tower?”

~ * ~

__ I love to work, I love to work, I love to work out after work,  
__ I'd love to spend a little time with this woman I'm seeing,  
_ Except, uh, we never really get any time to spend together,  
_ __ So, we call each other up, and we talk about work.

~ * ~

_ Thirty minutes ago… _

“That’s an ugly tower,” Rodimus remarked, though he had no neck to crane upwards. “This is where it started?”

“The fire is further away,” the Patriarch said, balancing precariously on his steering wheel. “But this is Gargamel’s home. It is from there he cursed our world.”

“Cursed, huh?” Rodimus vented. “Curses aren’t real.”

“Perhaps your people call it something else when calamity befalls you and there’s nothing you can do to stop it, only desperately try to survive.”

Rodimus considered. “No, we pretty much call that being cursed too. Or, well, something else that’s not fit for tender baby audials.”

[Rodimus, why are you driving towards danger instead of away from it?] Megatron demanded. [Please don’t tell me you’re gawking at the ugly tower?]

“There’s no way that’s as ugly as Darkmount,” Rodimus pointed out. “Why are we here, guys?”

“He has some of my people captive,” the Patriarch said, and turned to the others. “Intelligent One, Designer, hurry.”

Rodimus opened the door, and two of the aliens spilled out, hurrying along the ground. “Hey, uh, do you name yourselves after your function? Are you functionists?”

“I’m not familiar with that term, but we do take on names that reflect our roles,” the alien said. “What does ‘Rodimus’ mean?”

“It’s sort of a nickname,” Rodimus explained. “My original name was Hot Rod.”

“And what does ‘hot rod’ mean?”

“Well, a hot rod is a type of car -- a four-wheeled vehicle -- that’s been modified to have extra power and speed,” he said, engines purring. “And my alt-mode, which I’m in right now, is a common model for it.”

“And do you have power and speed? Were you modified?”

“Oh yeah, I definitely have power and speed. I’m not a lot slower than Blurr, and he’s an actual racer. I’ve been modified too, though an artifact called the Matrix, to be more powerful.”

“So you are, in fact, named after your function,” the Patriarch noted, his tone dry. Rodimus fluttered his doors.

“Okay, technically yes,” Rodimus said. “But not everyone is. I mean, Brainstorm’s a mad genius, Ratchet’s a medic, Rewind’s a historian--”

The ground began to shake, causing Rodimus’ entire frame to vibrate, and the aliens cried out.

“We must wait a little longer,” the alien urged. “They have to get back. Surely they’ll be fast.”

“Okay, I’m trusting you,” Rodimus said, and winced as Megatron’s voice sounded in his audial. “Maybe they could hurry?”

Fire rose up on the horizon, a wave of heat and light that, oddly enough, seemed to suck the strength of the day out. “The fire comes!”

“So do they!” the female-frame alien called out. “Brainy! Crafty,  _ hurry!” _

The aliens, now with a dozen more of them, scrambled up into Rodimus’ seats, clinging to him tightly, their blue skin scorched in places.

“I’ve got you,” Rodimus said, slamming his doors closed, and flashing his headlights. “Hang on to your silly hats.”

With that, he pressed down his accelerator, drove in a tight, showy circle, and fled from the incoming inferno.

~ * ~

__ But, actually I think it'd be really relaxing,  
__ Just to be by myself, in the middle of the ocean,  
_ And that's what I'd really love to do, more than anything else,  
_ __ Except, I'd probably hate it.

~ * ~

_ Ten minutes ago… _

“Rodimus, the evacuation point has been set up at three three one four five six dash zed,” Megatron said. Blaster had been pushed out of his seat, and was perched awkwardly on the arm of the command throne, trying not to touch Magnus, who was occupying the throne itself. They were both watching the monitors avidly as Rodimus attempted to outrace the lava that was burning everything in its path, and the flame that leapt ahead of it. “You’re heading to the right vector, just keep going.”

[Any news on what really caused it?] Rodimus asked. [Curses are all well and good, but we have those scientists around for something.]

“I’m sure Perceptor and Brainstorm are observing from the ship where it’s  _ safe,”  _ Megatron said, gripping at the console. It creaked a little, and he forced himself to relax.  _ When was the last time I had my ‘medicine’? _ “If it’s not relevant to you escaping, don’t worry about it.”

[Ooh, someone’s worried,] Rodimus teased. The flame-coloured vehicle skidded around a turn, ploughing through mushroom villages, already evacuated of their tiny occupants. [I’m sure you can check my aft later for blistered paint.]

“I’m sure that’s not something you should be concerning yourself with,” Megatron snapped, tension bleeding into his words. “Focus on staying alive.”

[You’re worrying over nothing,] Rodimus said, keeping his tone as light-hearted as possible. [Hey look, there’s a hill. I’m going to ramp it.]

“Rodimus!”

~ * ~

__ If I'm not under pressure then I sleep too long,  
__ And I hang around like a bum,  
__ I think I'm goin' nowhere, and that makes me nervous.  
__ Everybody's out to get me but I feel alright,  
__ Everybody's out to get me but I feel alright,  
_ Everybody's out to get me but I feel alright,  
_ __ Everybody's thinkin' 'bout me!

~ * ~

_ Now… _

“You’re an idiot,” Megatron said, the moment they were alone. Rodimus crossed his arms over his chest, and leaned against the wall, only wincing a little as blistered paint struck cool metal. “You take too many chances, put yourself in danger for aliens that can’t possibly help us on our journey, and nearly got yourself turned into scrap in the process.”

“I won,” Rodimus replied simply, bright blue eyes meeting baleful red ones when the former Decepticon leader let him speak. “I beat the fire, I saved the  _ people  _ we were trying to  _ help _ and I’m pretty sure they’ll enjoy themselves on that planet with the sentient talking bears in pastel colours. They seemed nice enough. I’m barely hurt. So what’s the big deal?”

Megatron stared down at him, venting harshly before reaching out, pushing Rodimus’ shoulders against the wall with a clang. There was only just barely time for Rodimus to open his mouth to protest when the warlord’s mouth closed over it, the kiss as scorching as the flames.

Rodimus grabbed for Megatron’s waist, scrabbling to pull him closer, to feel heat and weight against him as he was pinned to the wall, moving in a way that was never meant to be a successful struggle for freedom.

[If I’d lost you, I’d never be able to explain it to Optimus,] Megatron said, letting the communication hum between them, like the rising tension in metal wiring. [But if you won’t learn the lesson from common sense, I’ll have to do something more hands on.]

Under the crush of the kiss, Rodimus grinned.

~ * ~

__ Everybody,  
__ Everybody's out to get me but I feel alright,  
__ Everybody's thinkin' 'bout me!  
__ Yeah!  
_ Yeah!  
_ __ Everybody's thinkin' 'bout me!

~ * ~

End


	18. Entry 18 - Homestuck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Free Write!  
> Fandom: Homestuck  
> Summary: On this, the occasion of Dirk Strider’s birthday, he shall eat cake.  
> \--  
> This is set in a similar-but-alternate version of FWD&J.

You sit on the roof of your apartment, bare feet dangling off the edge above the endless ocean, trying to fish up something to eat. Fishing isn’t something your brother taught you how to do. It wasn’t something that came from the robots. It was something you learned on your own, when you tired of orange soda and ration packs and wanted something new.

You watched videos online, combing them meticulously for any scrap of information you could use. You learned dozens of different methods, most of which were impossible to use, due to the nature of the world, which is to say, completely fucked.

So, you picked out a tried and true method. Just you, a rod, some bait, a bucket -- which makes your guts twist a little -- and the endless expanse of an ocean.

SS: Well, isn’t this cozy?

Oh, yes, and yourself. You can’t forget yourself.

TT: Are you kidding, right now?  
TT: Go back to bothering other people.  
SS: No.  
SS: So, what are we catching?  
TT: Fish.  
TT: Which would be obvious to you unless you wanted to simply disrupt my meditative state.  
TT: In which case, fuck off.  
SS: So hostile.  
SS: Were you having a particularly productive space-out?  
TT: I’m sure you could answer that question if you tried.  
SS: I probably could, so I ask a counter-question:  
SS: What day is it today?  
TT: I don’t know, Tuesday?  
SS: Good try; it’s our birthday.  
TT: ‘Our’?  
SS: Being that I am you, and also you chose the occasion of your thirteenth birthday to create me, yes it is in fact our birthday.  
SS: Bweet.  
SS: That’s a noisemaker sound, by the way.  
TT: Wonderful.  
TT: So, on this most momentous occasion, what do you have planned for our double birthday?  
TT: Balloons, streamers, cake?  
TT: Actually, the cake’s got higher odds than the other stuff, considering Jane.  
SS: Considering Jane.  
SS: Actually, I’ve come to tell you something. You have a gift waiting for you in the crawlspace.  
TT: A gift? From who?  
SS: You’ll see.

You consider ignoring your Auto-Responder. You consider your line, unbitten. You consider your stomach, growling. You consider the sun, disappearing below the horizon. You really do need to eat, sooner rather than later. Unfortunately, the fish aren’t biting, but for just this moment, you suppose you will.

It’s a shame Derse never has any food.

TT: Fine.

You stand up, retrieving all of your gear, and head back inside. It’s marginally cooler inside, with curtains and other things providing cool, circulating air. You’re not sure what all of this is about, but you’re fairly sure that crawlspace is empty. You’ve been up there many times in the past, retrieving foodstuffs, soda, and the occasional puppet.

Once your fishing supplies are safely away, you open the crawlspace and head up into it. It’s dark, but your glasses glow brightly, because AR has decided to help you today. You crawl to the back of it, and in the absolutely ass-crack of darkness that is the deepest depths of this space, you find a box. A crate, really. There’s something taped to it, too dark to see, but you peel it off and then focus on opening the crate.

“What the--?”

~ * ~

_Four hundred years previous…_

Jane stifled a sigh. One might think that going out to meet celebrities would be a joyous occasion, filled with gossip and excitement and sharing with close friends, but to her, it wasn’t.

Instead, it was another time for her to wear bulletproof clothing under outfits safe enough to wear with them, and unfashionable besides. Once, long ago, she’d been able to wear dresses in the family red, fancy and froofy and fun. Those days had been over before her tenth birthday, and in some ways, she missed them.

Still, she had a company to represent, and an occasion to go to, one she almost wished she could tell her friends about: she was going to meet Dave Strider and Rose Lalonde for the second time.

The first, of course, wasn’t so much a meeting as an attack, one during which both adults had contributed to the preservation of Jane’s life. Dave Strider -- director, artist, musician -- had cut the assassin that had shot her in half with his sword, which he swore was a real katana, and Rose Lalonde -- author, eccentric, genius -- had had the foresight to call for an ambulance that arrived only moments after Jane had been shot, saving her life.

_Seventeen seconds._

_Shut up,_ she told herself silently. Enjoy the part where you don’t get shot again.

This party was for a fundraiser involving the preservation of sea life in the Pacific. Countless celebrities gathered to throw their weight behind the movement in the hopes of gleaning a moment’s support from their fans, before the next stupid thing they did condemned them as terrible, awful, no-good very bad people.

 _I should be home,_ Jane fretted. _It’s Dirk’s birthday, we could watch a movie or a show together. I’m sure Jake is, or Roxy. But how do I explain I’m missing an important event to watch Food War with someone I’ve only met on the internet?_

“Obviously, that you’re attending an important birthday party for royalty,” said a voice, and Jane started. Even her bodyguards, scattered around her, hadn’t heard or seen the approach of one Rose Lalonde, despite the fact her dress was sunset orange and gold. “I’m sorry, you’re thinking very hard.”

“It’s… alright,” Jane said, and smiled up at her. The older woman had a cool little smile on her face, and Jane wondered if she could really be related to bubbly, bright Roxy. “Hello, Ms. Lalonde.”

“Hello, Ms. Crocker,” Rose said, and her lips twitched a fraction. “Come, walk with me. David will be along presently to say his hellos.”

“I appreciate that you’re taking time to speak to me to begin with,” Jane said. “I can be patient.”

“You’re very patient,” Rose agreed. “Astoundingly so at times, considering you deal with Striders.”

“...how did you know about Dirk?” Jane asked. “The last time we met, I hadn’t met him.”

“I’m psychic,” Rose stated, matter-of-fact. “And you are talented. That’s why we’re going to ask something of you. Something fairly serious.”

“I’m… not sure what you want me to do, or how I can help, but I’ll try,” Jane said slowly. “Does it have something to do with baking?”

“It does, actually. I’ll let David explain.”

“I’d be happy to, Rhoswen,” Dave Strider called, and sauntered over. He put an arm around Rose’s waist and kissed her cheek, which she tolerated with the air of one both practiced and jaded. Jane envied her for just a moment. “Hello, Jane. Nice to see you all not-shot.”

“It’s nice to be conscious for our meeting,” Jane replied, even as Rose rolled her eyes. “I understand you need something from me?”

“Yeah, I do. Can you make me a cake?” Rose elbowed him, hard. “Ow, what the fuck, Rose?”

“You’re being obnoxious for shock value,” she chided him. “Again.”

“What a gross fucking mischaracterization, I can’t believe this.” Dave rolled his eyes behind his shades, and added, “I need a cake for my brother. You know him. Dirk.”

Jane frowned at him, wondering if she was being mocked. “Dirk says you haven’t met him. That he’s from the future.”

“Do you believe him?”

“No,” Jane said crisply. “But he’s still my friend anyway.”

“Wow, rude,” Dave said, smirking. “So rude. Yes or no?”

“Well, yes, but how would I get the cake to him?” Jane asked. “What’s to say this isn’t a colossal waste of time?”

“We have our ways,” Rose said, and gestured imperiously. “Will you or won’t you?”

Jane considered, but only for a moment. “Yes.”

~ * ~

Dear Dirk,

I have been informed that, on this occasion of your fifteenth birthday, you require a cake of some importance and skill baked, and that I am the one to do it. It certainly solves the problem of what to get you! Not that anything I could do would top Pony Pals or Lil Sebastian. I’m not a professional baker, not yet at any rate, and so I hope this cake will find you well, on your birthday of the ‘future’.

Happy Birthday,  
Jane.

End 


	19. Entry 19 - Warcraft

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Does your character trust their government? Have the actions of their heads of state ever given them pause?  
> Fandom: Warcraft (very minor Legion spoilers)  
> Summary: Once more, the heroes of Azeroth follow their leader into battle, on the cusp of promises of new understanding.  
> \--  
> I blame Astralune for this one.

~ * ~

“My son, a terrible darkness has returned to our world. As before, it seeks to annihilate everything that we hold dear. I go to face it, knowing that I may not return. All my life I have lived by the sword. I’ve seen kingdoms burn, and watched brave heroes die in vain. It’s been difficult for me to trust after losing so much. But from you I have learned patience, tolerance and faith. Anduin, I now believe as you do, that peace is the noblest aspiration. But to preserve it, you must be willing to fight! FOR AZEROTH!” - Varian Wrynn

~ * ~

“Is he serious?!” wailed the draenei at the bar. She clutched at the tankard with pale blue fingers, and it was as much by virtue of her twin, blue-grey axes as anything else that the rest of the patrons of the Pig & Whistle Tavern kept their distance.

It was not exactly a busy time for the tavern, being just on the other side of afternoon, and the barkeep hadn’t expected to see one of the heroes of Azeroth come in, sit down, and shove gold at him while insisting she wanted ale enough to ‘convince herself she wasn’t real’.

“It’s another war, is it? Isn’t it always? Today it’s peace, love, and understanding, and tomorrow it’ll be ranting about filthy greenskins. It’ll be convincing another group of poor souls that they  _ need  _ the Alliance and they  _ need  _ Varian damn-his-eyes Wrynn!”

The words, seditious at the best of times, seemed to reach none of the other patrons, deep in their cups. The draenei lifted the tankard -- surely, too much for her -- and began to drink deeply and with remarkable swiftness. A full third of it was gone when she slammed the tankard down, causing it to slosh perilously.

“Where were his words when the demons were invading? Where were his words when we fought dragons and old Horde orcs and undead? Where were his words at the Tournament?!” Her volume and incredulity both increased with each question, and she let out a harsh, angry cry into her ale. “Where were his words at Theramore?!”

Memories spilled back, of the ruin of the once-beautiful city. She could remember her first visit, when it had been a place of learning, of peace, of prosperity. She could remember as, year by year, the joy had been robbed from Lady Proudmoore until she was nothing but a husk, seeming to go from reasonable to raging and back again whenever the moons were full or the tides changed.

“Does he think we’ve forgotten all he’s done?” the draenei woman continued, fitting her hands around the tankard as one might fit them around a neck. Some of the patrons shifted, uneasy. “Does he think  _ statues  _ and  _ parks  _ will undo all the damned mess he’s made? The people we’ve lost along the way?”

She took a shaky breath and drank down another third of the ale, some of it spilling over the blue-grey links of her chain shirt. Her tail lashed, angry. “Damn him. Damn his insincerity. Damn him and damn us all.” Abruptly, she burst into tears. She pushed the tankard away, and folded her arms so that they rested on the bar, leaning her forehead against them, leaving a pair of curling white horns pointing dangerously upwards. “I want to go home, but there’s nowhere to go to”

The patrons sat, awkward and unsure. Surely, the draenei woman was drunk. War had addled her mind to speak so against their king, Varian Wrynn, leader of the Alliance in all things. Draenei were unusual, and weren’t some of them demons, anyway?

As the woman at the bar sobbed into her arms, a figure -- short, stout, and sporting a rather impressive black beard -- pushed his way to her. He heaved himself up onto the bar stool next to her. “Lass, lass. Shh. It’s alright. It’s going to be alright, Sophine. Don’t cry. Finish… finish yer ale and we’ll get ye back ter Cyannus. Ain’t Cyan yer friend?”

The draenei woman -- Sophine -- sniffled and nodded a little. “He’s a very good friend.”

“That’s it, that’s it…” The dwarf rubbed her back a little, patting over her grey cloak. “Have ye gold?”

“Of-- of course, Boozers,” Sophine murmured. “Just let me…” She sat up a little, patting at her various pouches before pulling out a handful of coins that had, once, been a fortune, and now seemed like barely worth the effort. “Thank you. I’m sorry.”

“Don’ mention it,” the dwarf replied gently. “Let’s get a move on, Keyboard’s none too fond’a the indoors.”

The draenei nodded and, carefully, finished the remainder of the ale. Once done, she slipped from the stool easily -- Boozers, the dwarf, had to swing himself down with a practiced air -- and swayed. Boozers offered his shoulder as support, and led Sophine out of the tavern, and into the street.

“Into the fires of battle, unto the anvil of war,” intoned the barkeep. “May the Light keep those who go to the Broken Isles.”

End


	20. Entry 20 - Transformers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: What cultural, ethnic, religious, academic or other kinds of rites of passage has your character gone through in their life? How meaningful were they to them? To their family? Why?  
> Fandom: Transformers  
> Summary: Knockout has been initiated into the Cause multiple times, and in multiple ways.  
> \--

Most people remembered the day they became inducted as Decepticons because of the procedure that went with it. Begun by Megatron himself, a prospective Decepticon’s chestplates were opened, and a portion of the orichalcum over their Spark chamber was scraped off, and melted, shaped, and formed into the Decepticon crest, then affixed to the person in whatever location was most prominent and appropriate. Most chose to have it over their Spark chamber, but some preferred a shoulder or, even more rarely, on their foreheads, near their finials.

The process was discomforting, even with pain receptors dulled, but not deadened, and many spoke of that moment of pain as enlightening, bearing it proudly.

For Knockout, though, the procedure he thought of was a little different. Once, a long time ago, he’d been a talented, brilliant medical student. He’d been the beloved student of Ratchet, one of the premier medics teaching at the Iacon Academy of Science and Arts. There, he’d dazzled his teachers with his natural talent and his sharp, brilliant mind. More important than that, instead of attracting a few sponsors, the way students usually did, he attracted hundreds.

_ My first mistake,  _ he admitted to himself quietly, as he went over the  _ Nemesis’  _ medbay.  _ I wanted to rise all the way up to the top. As soon as I graduated, I was going to join the Medical Elect. I was going to be the personal physician of senators and nobles. I was going to be famous, the way Ratchet never wanted to be. _

Ratchet had once been beloved of Malleus Prime. Ratchet had also helped kill the Prime, which had, in turn, led to the end of the Night of One Billion Sparks. It had saved Cybertron, saved the All-Spark… saved their race, and yet, Ratchet had never wanted to talk about it.

Not until he and Knockout had already become estranged, after graduation. Not until it was already too late. Not until he learned the truth of what Ratchet had done, the price he’d paid.

Not until Ratchet had sent him the means to kill a Prime and urged him not to ever use it.

_ If he’d destroyed it, things would have been very different for all of us. Sentinel would still have died, but Zeta…  _ Knockout vented heavily.  _ Instead, he trusted me, and so… _

And so, when Megatron had needed it, he had given it to him. When he had needed it taken from the place he’d magnetized it next to his Spark chamber, so close that it couldn’t be detected by scans. Megatron had insisted on removing it himself, and while he’d warned the Decepticon leader to be careful, the mech had never been a doctor.

The feeling of claws scraping against his Spark chamber, deforming it, had been agonizing. He remembered screaming until his systems had shut down, and when he’d woken, the deed had been done. Zeta had been killed, and the deed was done. He would be infamous for something he’d never done, credited with the genius of killing a Prime that he hadn’t earned.

That was, in his mind, his real initiation into the Decepticon cause, the permanent mark on his very soul. After that, the insignia had been easy, barely worth talking about.

Still, that wasn’t the initiation he remembered most. What he remembered most, more than being in pain, more than falling aft-backwards into the Decepticon cause, was when Megatron had called him to berth the first time. When he had run his clawed fingers over Knockout’s frame, pricking and scraping at the perfection of his dark red paint, marking him as Megatron’s own.

The feeling of greedy, demanding lip plates and the thickness of Megatron’s spike between his legs, pushing urgently at his valve. Of memories of sitting with Sunbeam, talking about the various merits of size and strength and girth.

“Chief Medical Officer Knockout,” Megatron purred in the racer’s audial. “You are  _ mine.” _

End


	21. Entry 21 - Warcraft

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: What makes your character’s neighborhood unique? How much have they been shaped by the places they grew up?  
> Fandom: Warcraft  
> Summary: Home, and family, are what you make of them.  
> \--  
> Back in the Burning Crusade era, I did my first real Warcraft roleplaying on IRC with a friend. Among the many original and canon characters we played, one of mine was a black dragon named Gorathion that was taught how to be good by someone else, and so he became a force to stand against Deathwing’s madness. He’s gotten tweaked over the years, but ultimately, the version in Defiance (he’s the egg Jaina brings to Alexstrasza with Vaelan) is sort of the ‘final’ version, created literal years before Wrathion’s stupid face. Gorathion is going to feature in a story I intend to write Someday.

Gora had known that he had been taken from his parents since he was but a tiny whelp. His mother -- his  _ real  _ mother -- had told him that because he was aware within his egg, deception was impossible, and more than that, it was dishonest without good reason.

_ It isn’t wrong to lie,  _ she had told him,  _ but it’s wrong to lie to someone you love. _

So, instead of hatching in the dark, smoky depths of Blackrock Mountain, under the care of Nefarian and Onyxia, Gorathion had grown up in the Ruby Sanctum, home to the red dragonflight, led by his parents, Alexstrasza the Life Binder and Korialstrasz, the Prime Consort.

The Sanctum was the most beautiful place in the world, of this Gora was certain. It was an extra-dimensional space, constructed to keep and shelter the reds, just as the other sanctums were meant to shelter the other dragons, the portals nestled close together and yet distinct and separate from each other. This meant that the green, rolling hills and huge, broad trees really did stretch as far as the eye could see, or tiny -- yet growing -- wing beats could carry.

The eggs lay against the curve of the hills, resting protectively in their nests and tended to by their cousins, the dragonkin. Gora had been instructed to be respectful at all times to the flightless, sterile beings, hatched from eggs alongside the whelps, and he was.

Well, once he’d also been told it was  _ not  _ respectful to land on them to ask what they were doing. It startled them. It was better to leave them to turn the eggs and keep them warm, as was their duty. Some would even speak to the young eggs, though this was mostly left to the adolescent dragons, older than Gora -- who was a whelp yet -- but younger than the properly grown dragons, like Lirastrasza.

The trees of the Sanctum were large, but individualistic, creating shelters from sunlight, and good places to rest amongst their vast, spreading roots. Sometimes, eggs were placed near them, and other times, mortal guests would find their rest beneath them and leave blessed by new eggs of their own, carried inside instead of laying in nests.

_ I’ve even been told they don’t have shells. How curious. I’d love to see mortal whelps. They don’t usually come here. _

Where there were neither trees nor nests, there were flowers, beautiful and bright, large enough for a whelp in their earliest stages to land on, and comfortable enough to catch a quick nap -- much to the amusement of his parents, and the chagrin of Ambergris, his minder. There were birds too, tiny things that lit fearlessly on dragonback and pecked away at the insects or bits of flaking scales. There were bees too, droning and fat, bumbling from one flower to the other, watched but never disturbed by the young whelps that were still growing.

Oh, and how they grew: Gora had spent roughly ten years in the egg before hatching, and had spent eight years after that growing and growing and  _ growing.  _ Instead of a tiny whelp, he was nearly grown, at about six feet long from nose to tail-tip, and nearly as long from wing to wing. It was nothing compared to either of his parents, whom he could shelter in like a bird in a tree, but it meant he was getting older.

_ One day, you will be large, and you will be powerful,  _ Korialstrasz had told him.  _ You will need to learn how to use the gifts of the Black Dragonflight, which are still yours, no matter where you were raised or how. They’re important, very important, and as precious as you are. _

The notion of it troubled him in many ways, because he knew of the Black Dragonflight. He knew of it in the looks people gave him as he soared through the valleys of the Ruby Sanctum. He knew it in the whispers. He knew it from the memories of Blackrock, when he’d been only an egg, only whispered to by different dragonkin, tended to by different hands.

He knew it because of the human woman who’d questioned Alexstrasza’s methods and been reassured, then blessed, by the Life Binder.

_ What if I  _ do  _ become like them?  _ he worried.  _ What if I  _ do  _ start hurting people? What if going underground drives me mad too? _ Gorathion fluttered to one of the tree branches, hanging low and bent perfectly for laying on, and flopped down, resting his chin against the rough bark.  _ What if I never learn how to manage my gifts? I am not like Mother or Father. They don’t hear the land as I do. They are good with growing things, but not the deep earth, where things live. _

Below him, a group of newly hatched whelplings tested their wings, flying clumsily as they chattered at great length about the gardens.

“There isn’t anywhere more perfect or beautiful,” one of them said, and Gora considered Cora’s words. He believed the same thing, but he didn’t  _ know.  _ He couldn’t be  _ sure. _

_ Well, I suppose there’s only one real way to find out… and that’s to leave. _ Gora swallowed nervously, and he looked up at the trilling bird. “What do you think? Should I ask to visit other places? Like the Obsidian Sanctum? Or the Dragonshrine? What would I do there? Would they have flowers and birds? Would there be valleys and nests and eggs?”

Unhelpfully, the bird chirped at him at length, pecked at the branch it was sitting on to spear an insect, and flew off.

As much as Gora loved the birds, loved the trees, loved the flowers and the nests and the people, part of him was craving something he couldn’t understand or define. He needed to find that something, to hold it against the shining beacon of his home, and learn of the differences and similarities. An idea formed in his mind, and he rose, shaking himself out from snout to tail, and flew off.

_ I know what I have to do. _

End


	22. Entry 22 - FF14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Write a fragment of a story that largely or slightly concerns a popular song that tells a good story. You might consider starting by summarizing the song’s narrative in prose in your own words, which you may then integrate or borrow from at will. Don’t be afraid to snatch up lyrical turns of phrase, either. Consider including a link to the song that inspired you.  
> Fandom: Final Fantasy XIV (3.3 Spoilers)  
> Summary: Time of war lead to times of peace, and times of peace lead to times of war, a cycle that continues like a serpent chasing its own tail.  
> \--  
> The song in question is Dragonsong, from Final Fantasy 14: Heavenward, and is the main theme, along with the final theme, of the Dragonsong War arc.
> 
> Lyrics: http://finalfantasy.wikia.com/wiki/Dragonsong  
> Video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BnOKdmAcSP0

__ Children of the land do you hear  
__ Echoes of truths that once rang clear  
__ Two souls intertwined  
__ One true love they did find  
__ Bringing land and heavens near  
~ * ~

“I’m going to murder that bard,” she muttered, collapsing to her knees on the rough, broken flagstones. In the place of roaring, of rage, of anger and pain, there was silence. Tentatively, the snow that had not dared to appear during the confrontation began to fall, catching in her dark blue hair, snagging on the singed ends.

Nearby, the healers were checking on those who had collapsed in the eleventh hour of the conflict, calling on the gentle, healing powers of the natural world and consulting with Selene, the Scholarly fairy a bright note of colour amongst the dim and drab flagstones.

“Noire!” Y’shtola called out, hurrying along as the magic faded, returning them to the -- thankfully empty -- bridge at the Steps of Fate. Unerringly, she ran her hands along her lover’s arms, and her pearly-white gaze swept over her. “Are you alright?”

“Just a little toasted,” she replied, and leaned in to kiss Y’shtola’s nose. “Don’t fuss over me.”

“To continue with the breakfast metaphor, eggs and bacon, you’re mistaken,” the Scion replied tartly. “I don’t see why you test the Minstrel’s tales. Was it not enough for you to strike the final blow yourself?”

“I enjoy the challenge,” she said, and cupped her hands over Y’shtola’s hips. “Though, there are things I enjoy more.”

“Not until I make sure you’re properly healed,” her lover said, and brushed her lips over Noire’s. “Come away with me, to the Manor.”

“Very well, Saint Shtola,” she said, only half joking, and the Mi’qote pulled her up. “Take me away.”

~ * ~  
__But flames that burn full bright, soon fell dark  
__Memories dimmed by shadowed hearts  
__In the waxing gloom did wane the lover's moon  
__Watching as their worlds drift apart  
__One soul's cry  
~ * ~

She slipped her arm around Noire’s waist, and they began the walk back to Ishgard. Already, the city was looking better. Brighter, and more hopeful. There had been discussion about replacing some of the statues, deferred until they could better afford it.

“We should ask the Mogmenders,” Noire murmured. “After all, they work for kupo nuts.”

Y’shtola groaned, and continued their walk. As long as she’d known it, the Brume had been gloomy, oppressively cold, and depressing. There had been a reason why the Mongrel had been so popular there, but now things seemed better. Some of the lower-class knights were passing out firewood and blankets, while those who would steal such bounty were being shouted down by their fellows.

“It’s good to see things changing, and not just for the upper class,” Y’shtola said. “It’s good to finally put an end to  _ one  _ cycle of endless hatred and despair.”

“You’re thinking of the kobolds.”

“Of all Primals, really. How many times will we fight them. How many times will beastmen die? How many innocents will be caught in the crossfire.” The Scion sighed. “Tell me why create, a circle none can break. Why must you let go, the life you were bestowed. This I fear I'll never know. Never know.”

“Deception. Anger. Greed. We know why the circle exists, and we know how we can break it. With Hydaelyn’s Light. With truth. We’ve proven here that it’s not hopeless.” Noire leaned in, nuzzling at her ear. “Come with me, I’ll show you.”

“That sounds promising,” Y’shtola replied lightly, but let Noire lead her back to the Fortemps Manor. There, Honoroit was coaching his replacement, and looking anxiously towards Emmanellain. They both waved to the returning Scions, and returned to their respective tasks.

“Everyone’s growing up,” Noire said with a smile, leading the way towards the upstairs. “Smoothing over old faults.”

“Creating new ones,” Y’shtola observed darkly. “Alphinaud wants me to sit for a sketch. I told him no. I am not an… icon.”

“Not even for me, for the next time you decide to go swimming in the Lifestream?”

The Scion glanced at her lover sharply. “I don’t intend to do it again. It wasn’t a joke the first time.”

“I was worried about you.” Noire stopped on one of the steps, so she could look up at the Mi’qote. “I would have never left you with Thancred if I’d know that was to be the result.”

“It wasn’t--”

“You’re blind. Matoya told me. She said you’re using magic to see, and it’s shortening your lifespan.” Noire reached up, grasping at her fingers. “I would rather have you blind than not have you at all.”

“I don’t have time to stumble about in the dark,” Y’shtola replied, chin set. “And you could be eaten by a dragon or crushed by a giant at any moment. You go seeking thrills for the fun of it. Don’t presume to lecture me about risk.”

“It’s not the same!” Noire protested. “It’s not at all the same. I’m the  _ Warrior  _ of Light, not the--”

“Not the  _ what?”  _ Y’shtola demanded. “Not the ‘Sit Around And Do Nothing Of Import of Light’? Not Minfillia?”

“I would never say that!”

“You don’t  _ need  _ to.”

~ * ~  
__A passion dwelling within  
__Sacrifice, a final plea to her kin  
__Yet this bond of hope, by treachery was broke  
__Scattering her words to the wind  
__Swelling over long,  
__seas of blood, are a song  
__And death an afterthought  
__To those who fight for naught  
~ * ~

Noire stood in the stairwell, watching as Y’shtola stalked up the remaining steps with an angry kind of grace, deliberate in her movements, in her determination to use her magic. The Au’ra leaned her forehead against the wall, closing her own eyes.

_ I have to be strong. I have to protect you and all the others. Thancred is so grim, blaming himself again for things he couldn’t help. Alphinaud’s shouldering more responsibility than a boy not yet grown should. We still haven’t found Yda and Papalymo yet. We have triumphed and yet there’s still so much left to fail. So much is still uncertain. Is it so wrong to want to be prepared? To better myself by testing myself against my greatest foe yet? _

Words came to her, the words of their Mother, drifting on the wind:

__ A throne, lying empty  
__ A reign, incomplete  
_ Alone, for eternity  
_ __ A pain, without cease

Noire looked up, and gazed at the portrait of one of the Twelve. He peered down at her, stern.  _ One of the Knights… bearing witness to a great betrayal. No, this can’t be our fate. It can never be our fate. _

With determination, she began to climb the stairs once more. The room she shared with her lover was the first door to their left, claimed owing to its proximity to how to get downstairs the fastest and deal with the current threat. Next to it was a small room meant as an armory, containing their tools to fight and protect.

_ We manage to keep that away from our private lives, from the love we share. I wonder if there’s something to that.  _ Noire stepped inside, noting where Y’shtola had already left her own things in their place, though there was no sign of the Scion. Slowly, Noire unbuckled her own armour, peeling out of the pieces, and then of the sweat-stained underclothing until she stood naked in front of the arming mirror. She glanced towards herself, taking in her scorched hair and ash-streaked black skin. It was hard to see the bruises, but she felt them now.

_ She just wanted to take care of me, just as I want to take care of her. What a fine pair we make, loving each other so much we make each other angry.  _ Noire couldn’t help but smile at the thought. She retrieved the second of the two sleeping robes and pulled it on. It had seemed like an absurd gift -- barely enough to cover what it was meant to, and too thin to be protective -- but it was pretty, the deep purple matching her eyes, and if Y’shtola chose to see it, she would appreciate the way the silk rested on Noire’s hips and curves.

~ * ~  
__Children of the land, answer this  
__Why must you turn to empty bliss  
__Tell me why break trust, why turn the past to dust  
__Seeking solace in the abyss  
~ * ~

“Shtola,” Noire called, stepping into the room. Her lover was already in bed, curled under the thick blankets. Her back was to the door, and Noire stifled a sigh, instead padding closer. “I’m sorry.”

“Elaborate,” came the crisp reply. Noire went to the bed and sat on the edge careful, wary of a tail.

“I’m sorry that I take risks and worry you,” Noire said. “I’m sorry that I don’t let you take care of me the way you want. I’m not sorry that I don’t want you to die too soon, just so you can chase after me. I’ll be more careful in the future. I promise.”

“I hate being helpless,” was the response, and Y’shtola tugged at the blankets. Noire immediately folded them back so she could climb into bed, and moved up behind the Mi’qote. “I hate feeling as though my use has come to an end due to the consequences of my actions. I hate that you’re ploughing on ahead where I often can’t follow. You’ll recall Regula?”

“I can hardly forget a man with so stupid a helm,” Noire murmured, hoping her lover would find the remark funny. At the brief, startled sound she made in response, Noire smiled. She ran her fingers gently along Y’shtola’s stomach, stroking the smooth skin there. “You had to stay behind. One by one…”

“Just like our escape from Ul’dah, with a different group, but nonetheless mirroring circumstances,” Y’shtola said, and shifted. “Don’t get my tail damp.”

“I’ll make the effort,” Noire replied, and stroked her fingers lower, teasing against the tuft of hair-fur, her own hips rocking gently, feeling the tail against her stomach. “You thought we were going to be separated again?”

“It was a low probability, but still one that  _ existed,”  _ Y’shtola said, and made a soft, appreciative noise. “Lower.”

Noire’s fingers stroked lower, caressing her folds with gentle fingers, roughened from work and training. “I just want to be strong enough to protect you. So you won’t need to do such things again. Every time… things get a little harder, the line draws a little too near.”

“I don’t know when it will -- ooh -- end,” the Scion murmured. “But I keep looking for times like this, times we can rest, and be happy.”

“They are moments blessed,” Noire agreed, and her fingers drifted up, finding the nub of her lover’s clit and caressed it. “Moments we can be together without fear or pain.”

“You’re going to ache in the morning,” Y’shtola groaned, and her hips pressed forward, caught between the curve of Noire’s body and her fingers. “Just so you know.”

“I’m an adult,” Noire assured her, and kissed the Mi’qote’s neck. “I’ll go to my healer and beg for clemency.” Her fingers moved in a short, tight circle, slow at first as Y’shtola writhed. “Know any good ones?”

“One or --  _ more --  _ two…”

Noire rocked her hips, pressing the scales of her thighs into Y’shtola’s soft ones, and used her other arm to wrap around Y’shtola’s waist. A little maneuvering allowed her to cup one of her lover’s breasts and thumb over the nipple. Silk rasped under the sheets as Noire hooked a leg around Y’shtola’s, creating as many points of contact as possible.

Y’shtola freed an arm, weaving under Noire’s, reaching back to grasp at her ass firmly, causing Noire to buck and move her fingers faster. There was little room for further discussion as measured breathing gave way to pants and moans, murmured endearment and half-meant threats.

When Y’shtola seemed at her peak, Noire slid her fingers down, pressing deeply into Y’shtola’s warm, wet entrance, just in time to feel the clench-spasm of release. Her own body felt taut with desire and soon she would have it, as Y’shtola twisted in her arms, almost as soon as she could, kissing her lover fiercely, eager to return a favour of pleasure.

_ Tomorrow, there may be danger, but tonight, we’re both safe,  _ Noire reassured herself, eagerly running damp fingers along her lover’s back.  _ Tonight, the circle is over. _

~ * ~  
__Tell me why create, a circle none can break  
__Why must you let go, the life you were bestowed  
__This I fear I'll never know  
__Never know  
~ * ~

End


	23. Entry 23 - Transformers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Write a story consisting only of dialogue. You can tag your speakers and use descriptive verbs (“You know, like this,” she explained) but no adjectives, adverbs, or other narration. See if you can carry the action just through speech!  
> Fandom: Transformers (Post-48 MTMTE)  
> Summary: Cyclonus, please talk about your feelings.  
> \--  
> You can tell this story is unrealistic and fake because Cyclonus is talking about his feelings with Tailgate.

“Cyclonus. Cyclonus. Cyclonus. Cyclonus. Cy--”

“No, Whirl. I will not.”

“There you go again, face like a funeral for you. I have a gift for you.”

“I didn’t ask you for a gift.”

“Aw, but you’ll like this one. Come on in, Squirt.”

“Whirl, no--”

“Cyclonus, hello.”

“Hello, Tailgate. I’m sorry Whirl has dragged you away from your friends. You were with Rewind and Swerve, weren’t you?”

“Yes, but Whirl told me you had something important to say, and I have something important to say too.”

“You two crazy Sparklings have fun, I’m going to go harass my therapist. Cheers.”

“...didn’t Rung resign?”

“Yeah, and he’s great to talk to, too.”

“So.”

“So. Tailgate, I’m sorry that--”

“Cyclonus, please. I know you had something to say, but I had something I wanted to say to you too. That’s a nod? Good. I believed Getaway. I believed him when he told me you were ashamed of me. That you were embarrassed by me. That you thought I was a coward.”

“I…  no, never, Tailgate. Never have I believed that of you. You faced death very bravely, as bravely as you could.”

“You told me not to hope. You wouldn’t speak to me after, and then you had those terrible scratches on your face. Just-- just hear me out. It was easy for me to believe Getaway because he would  _ talk  _ to me. We spent time together, but the more I think about it, the more I realize that he was trying to, oh what’s the word? Polish me? No…”

“Groom. He was grooming you for what he wanted you to do later.”

“Yes. He gave me a gift that was important to  _ him _ , not to  _ me.  _ Not like…”

“It was an off-handed remark from a mech that died that did it. Not part of my own intent.”

“You could have  _ died  _ along with me, but you didn’t. You lived and then I lived. It wasn’t just that. You protected my reputation. You taught me Primal Vernacular. You  _ sang  _ for me.”

“The security team thought I was attacking you.”

“Bugger the  _ blinking  _ security team,  _ I  _ liked it. I loved it.”

“Tailgate…”

“No, no, I’m not done yet. The point is that you  _ showed  _ me you cared, but I doubted because of your  _ words _ . Or you lack of words. Because you would never say anything. I didn’t know about the Four Acts until Gateway told me and I shouldn’t have learned about it from him. We’ve been through it, but there’s that last act, that reciprocation. If you don’t do things right you have to start all over. Is that a lie he told me too?”

“No. No, he was correct. Otherwise, the Four Acts could be accomplished… accidentally.”

“Well, we’re in a familiar place, in our room. I’ve told you something personal. Now I’m going to give you a gift, and then you’ll need to respond. Alright?”

“Very well, Tailgate, audials at full.”

“I love you, Cyclonus. I love that you’re big and mean and scary. I love that you’re soft and gentle inside. I love that you tell me what I need to hear and not what I want to hear, but you’ve fallen down on the job with that, because I  _ need  _ to hear something from you. Not want, need. I need to know if you love me back. If we can be cojunxes. If we can start talking to each other properly about things instead of letting the worst happen before one of us  _ says  _ something. That’s my gift to you, my feelings, from the core of my still-rotating Spark. What do you have to say about that? What will you give back?”

“Tailgate, this is… difficult for me. It’s hard to express emotions, but I admire you. You’re a far better person than I am. A bigger Spark, a kinder soul. I don’t think I deserve to have the regard you give me. I want to do right by you, to protect you from all that would do you harm, but it seems that you always wind up protecting me. I’ve only ever believed you to be brave. I’m the coward. I’m the one who has difficulty speaking from the Spark. Still, you’ve given me so much, put so much into our Acts that I need to return the gesture. Let me just… I’m still taller than you, even kneeling.”

“I’m a  _ mini  _ bot, after all. Never mind that.”

“Right, of course. Tailgate of Rivets Field, I love you, and i would very much like to be your cojunx, if you’ll have me-- Tailgate!”

“You’re ridiculous! So ridiculous.”

“...at least we can be ridiculous together?”

“Yes, we can.”

~ * ~

“How do you think it’s going?”

“Good, or it better be. I’ll actually have to try to kill Cyclonus again if he messes this up.”

“Again? Whirl…”

“Hey, you’re not my therapist. You’re my friend. We’re allowed to share things.”

“That’s true, I suppose. So, what else are you interested in sharing with a friend?”

“Uh… did you want a clock? I’m not great with the tiny space ships, but I’m good with clocks.”

“I will take a clock. Thank you.”

“Eh. You’re welcome, Rung.”

End


	24. Entry 24 - WH40K

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Has your character ever pretended to be something or someone they’re not? Have they ever been tempted? What prompted their deception? How did it turn out?  
> Fandom: WarHammer 40,000  
> Summary: In the wake of a need in a small community, hope comes in the form of a doctor and her loving husband.  
> \--  
> I’ve had this idea kicking around for a while, though there’s another ‘version’ wherein it’s an exile rather than an infiltration. Many thanks to the prompt generator for indulging in my laziness and desire to write this story.

When Dr. Jamieson had died in the winter, everyone in Acton’s Crossing had been worried about how they would fare. Acton’s was a small town, on a world that was off the beaten path as far as Void lanes were concerned. Sometimes, rarely, they saw Rogue Traders, more interested in poking the trinkets to be found in Cestus Primaris’ markets than helping them find their own.

Life in the Hive City was far more interesting than coming out to live in what was, in kinder moments, referred to as a backwater with few prospects. The doctor had been the last of his line, too, with tastes that did not lead to children, and a partner that had died three months before. The people of Acton’s Crossing had despaired, and more than one prayer had been lofted towards the God-Emperor and the Silver Saint when the town went to Chapel once a week.

It had been a gift, then, from their Great Deity when the new doctor had arrived on the first day of Spring, just as green was beginning to poke through the snow. She was not precisely a tall woman, but she carried herself with grace. Her hair was long and white-blond, usually pulled back in a braid or a bun to avoid it falling in anything, and her eyes were a startling shade of violet, marking her as an off-worlder. She was neat and polite, speaking both High and Low Gothic with a practiced, easy air. When she had learned of the previous doctor’s death, she had asked to take his place for his customary fee, and no one had objected.

Well, not much, at any rate.

The new doctor had not come alone. Her husband, as she had introduced him, was not a doctor. He was more of a hands on sort of person, and would happily work at any task found to him. This was something of an understatement, as the big, broad man seemed to be able to lift anything with ease, and thus quickly became a favourite of the local farmers, both out in the fields and in the barns. He seemed, as well, to have a way with animals.

He did not have violet eyes, and instead, his green-brown gaze was calm and measured, taking in everything and having very little to say. His hair was short and brown, with a scar that ran through it that turned the hair there to grey. He did not look old, he had been reassured, which he smiled and took with grace. That was not his only scar, and some remarked at the state of his hands, work-roughened and scored with dozens of old, healed wounds, mostly across the knuckles. He rarely spoke of them, but many speculated that he had more, and that was why he never, no matter how hot it became, or how much work he did, wore anything but long, sturdy canvas trousers and a long sleeved button up shirt.

They were a peculiar couple, the doctor and the labourer, but none doubted their devotion to one another -- after all, did they not, when the other wasn’t looking, give each other looks of longing and desire, the way youths gazed at their first loves?

~ * ~

“Going to be a cold one this year,” Aton remarked to the doctor, buttoning up his shirt. “Your first winter here, Doctor Meridian.”

“We did just manage to avoid it last time,” the woman remarked as she keyed words into her datapad. “Will you need help moving snow and ice? I’m sure Lev will be happy to help out.”

“We couldn’t, he already does so much -- you both do. Why, I’d imagine once he’s done his shift he’ll be making your dinner, since you’ll be here until late hours.”

The doctor’s lips quirked in a smile. “Well, I’m something of a workaholic. It’s a habit I’ve had for years.”

“Not years, surely,” Aton protested. “Why, you can’t be much older than my oldest.”

“I’m a doctor, sir,” she chided. “That takes time. I simply age well. Very well, as a matter of fact.”

“Ah, is it fancy off-worlder medicine?” the farmer asked. “What’s them, joovie…”

“Juvenats, and yes. Well spotted.” The doctor nodded. “I want to see you in two weeks as a follow up for your injury. I’m concerned about the shape, but it’s healing nicely.”

“My thanks, Doctor--”

“I don’t mind Vina, when our appointment’s done.”

“Vina, then. I don’t rightly know where I got the damned thing, is the real trouble.” Aton sighed. “We’ll see you at chapel tomorrow?”

“Of course,” Vina assured him, this smile warmer. “Take care, Aton.”

“Take care, Doctor,” he replied, and headed off. Though he was quick to pass through the door, a stiff, cold breeze moved through the office. Vina frowned, and tapped a button on her cuff, lifting it to her mouth.

“Agent Zero to Agent One, do you copy?”

“Reading you, Agent Zero. What is it, over?”

“I think we’re going to have to move fast. Contact Agent Two to move the rest of the team in. Over.”

“Confirmed. Over.”

~ * ~

It was well past dark by the time the doctor left her office and returned to the part of the house she lived in. Dr. Jamieson had arranged for his office to be nestled against the house, but one couldn’t accidentally wander into unauthorized portions of the building. It allowed for both privacy and a separation of work and home life, for which Doctor Meridian was deeply grateful.

She closed the door behind her and locked it, then kicked off her shoes, stretching her toes in her stockings before putting on slippers. She then took off her coat and hung it on a hook, next to the heavy day labourer’s jacket already present.

“Leviticus?” she called softly, stretching slowly before padding through the hall and into the kitchen. “Is dinner ready?”

“I’ve been keeping it warm for you,” replied a voice from the sitting room. “I’ll be there in a minute, I’m trying to get the vox working.”

“No luck with it?” she asked as she headed to the kitchen. She sniffed, appreciative. “Are you going to need to go out to the fields again? People might ask questions.”

“No, I can do this. Brennan taught me some incantations to use. Eat your dinner, you haven’t eaten all day except for the coffee you had this morning.”

“You can’t prove that,” she said, and dug into her meal. “Ooh, is this mutton?”

“Yes, Torwan gave me a new recipe. How was your day, Lavinia?”

“Busy, it usually is. Aton is Marked, by the way.”

“I legitimately did not see that coming.”

“He claims he doesn’t remember how he got it, and I think I actually believe him. Which means…”

“The Cult is on the move.” There was a sharp, crackling noise. “I think it’s working.”

“If you burn the house down, I’ll be really annoyed,” Lavinia muttered, and made a soft noise. “This tastes great, thank you.”

“You’re welcome, just let me--” There was a soft crackle of status, and a muttered curse. “There. We’re live. Inquisitor, do you want to deliver the report?”

“No, I want to eat your meat in peace.”

“Phrasing,” Leviticus muttered, just loud enough for her to hear. “Agent One to Agent Two, come in.”

The vox crackled again. “Agent Two, responding. What is your situation?”

“We believe the Cult is moving. How soon can the team be in place?”

“Two -- hang on. Let me ask Agent Three.”

“I feel like we should have picked cleverer Agent names,” Leviticus remarked. “Something catchier.”

“I didn’t want us stumbling over our designations,” Lavinia replied, eating through her meal slowly, savouring it.  _ I’ve got thirteen medical degrees and I can be confirmed to make coffee and also toast. This is amazing…  _ “Where did you learn to cook?”

“I flash-learned it during the briefing. I wanted to make sure you didn’t starve while you were here.”

“You’re too good to me,” she murmured. “Thank you.”

Leviticus stood, and walked towards the kitchen. He stopped by Lavinia, and let his hands rest against her shoulders. “No, you’re too good to all of these people. You spend so much time taking care of them, the way you take care of us. Of me.”

“It’s my duty,” Lavinia began, and then moaned softly as Leviticus began to rub his thumbs in slow circles along her shoulderblades. “Ooh, and my pleasure. Also, that. Definitely that.”

“I could do a better job if you were laying in bed,” Leviticus said, rubbing a little lower. “Preferably, with less clothing blocking the way.”

“‘Please, Lavinia, get naked and lay in bed so I can spoil you shamelessly’,” Lavinia said, and groaned. “It’s faster and gets directly to the point.”

“Please, Lavinia,” Leviticus repeated, leaning close to her ear to murmur the words. “Get naked and lay in bed so I can--”

“Agent One, this is Agent Two. Are you still there?”

“Fuck Zach’s timing,” Lavinia murmured. “Bed. Ten minutes. Deal?”

“Deal.”

With some reluctance, Leviticus pulled back, and returned to the vox. Lavinia quickly finished her meal, and then picked up her dish, placing it in the sink to wash later. Once done, she hurried off up the stairs, to the bedroom on the second floor.

While she had left her doctor’s coat back at the office, she still wore a pantsuit, and it came off with a great deal more speed than it took to put on in the mornings. She hung up each piece neatly, smoothing away any wrinkles it might have, before discarding her ivory-white blouse and underthings in a hamper.

_ We’re so close to cracking this case,  _ Lavinia thought, and paused in front of the mirror, admiring the smooth curves of her body, the Rosette tattoo over her left breast, and the Inquisitorial I just by her navel. There was another tattoo at the small of her back, a black bird with a blood teardrop.  _ Once it is, our infiltration will be over and-- _

And, no more meals prepared in the evening. No more patients -- her medical work was mostly lab related, or in the field. It was back to her usual urgent work schedule with little room for rest and relaxation, only moving forward. She watched her own expression -- pleased at her own appearance -- give way to worry that hung on her like a shroud.

“Lavinia?” Leviticus called as he came into the room, seeming to dwarf it with the size and strength of his body. “Everything alright?”

“I-- yes, everything is fine,” she replied, and turned to him. “I believe you promised me some more spoiling?”

“Not in  _ so  _ many words,” Leviticus warned, and stepped forward to scoop her into his arms. She made a startled noise and he kissed her, then carried her to the bed.

_ I’m not going to worry. Not right now. No point in borrowing trouble from tomorrow when I have tonight. _

~ * ~

The barn burned with a malevolent purple-green light. Specially trained to resist compulsion and madness, Lavinia watched it go, taking the cultist trappings -- and many of the cultists -- with it. It was a grim, but satisfying sight.

Seated on the gurney, Aton shivered, and Lavinia tore her gaze from the bonfire and returned her attention to him. “You’re going to be fine.”

“Vina… Inquisitor… I--”

“You can call me Lavinia, if you like. My name is Lavinia Latinium.”

“...Lady Inquisitor of the Ordo Xenos, working with the Deathwatch,” Aton finished, swallowing heavily. “If I was ever inappropriate--”

“Shh, don’t start down that path. While the innocent have much to fear, I am not one of them.” Lavinia applied salve to the wounds on his back. “You may need special surgery to properly deal with these. We’re going to have to bleed the toxin from your system, and then replace the blood with fresh donations. Once that happens, your platelets will work properly again. Another alternative is somewhat brute force, but with all of the Space Marines here, someone will donate some Larraman’s Cells to the cause.”

Aton looked over at the Astartes, trying  _ not  _ to look at the burning barn at the same time. “They’re different than I imagined.”

“A lot of people say that, but how are they different?”

“Lev… Lev weren’t too proud to work with us humans,” the farmer said. “He worked, every day of every season, even Chapel day. I wouldn’t have recognized him as one of the Angels at all.”

“Astartes are, under all of that armour, fundamentally human,” Lavinia said, glancing towards them too. Deathwatch armour was mostly black, with Chapter symbols painted on their shoulder plates, but it was easy to pick Leviticus out from Zach, Brennan, and Hamsa, all working busily to control the flames while Sarah kept the farmers away from the blaze, reassuring them that they were not going to get bombarded from orbit. The Cadian woman was friendly, and worked a crowd well.  _ Sarah’s the opposite of all those stereotypes about weird sniper loners,  _ she mused.

“You’re different too,” Aton said, and this time, Lavinia required no elaboration. “But I didn’t think Space Marines got married. No one ever talks about it.”

“That was part of the ruse, I’m afraid,” she noted. “We’re not married. Our work was strictly business.”

Aton glanced over, and noted that Lev -- Leviticus, it turned out to really be -- was looking back at Lavinia, that same look of longing in his eyes as Aton had seen so many times over the past year. “Really? Nothin’ romantic?”

“No, it was all strictly professional,” Lavinia said as, a moment later, Leviticus looked away. Lavinia looked over her shoulder at him, and Aton watched the same sad, almost longing look on her face. “We aren’t married, and we’re not even really a couple. We’re colleagues. Ultimately, at the end of the day, he belongs to the Deathwatch and his Chapter, and I belong to the Inquisition.”

_ Maybe you can say that, but no one’s more devoted than the two of you. _

~ * ~

“I wish, more than anything, I could be a normal man, so I could be with you.”

“Neither of us are normal or will ever live normal lives. We never would have met for the lives we have lived. I don’t want you to be special. I want you to be you.”

End


	25. Entry 25 - Homestuck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Write a vignette told only in images—concrete, simple, visually efficient movements and details. This exercise does not ask you to eliminate people from your prose, just to watch what they do and what objects they interact with rather than what they say or think about these objects and actions. It may help to imagine your piece like a silent film.  
> Fandom: Homestuck  
> Summary: Dirk Strider takes a shower.  
> –-  
> If you’ve ever seen that post about ‘people who take 40 minute showers, what are you doing in there?’, this is sort of my answer, because it’s almost word for word my own experience, except my hair is three feet long and that shit takes time to deal with.

Dirk walked through his apartment. His skin was sheened with sweat, and his hair lay flat against his head, plastered, dark, and damp. He rubbed his left hand against the arm of his right, his fingers twitching at the contact between them. Nodding to himself, he headed towards his bedroom. He stripped off his sopping tank top, dropping it onto the floor. He hooked his thumbs under the waistband of his underwear and shorts, pushing them down to pool on the ground in a heap.

He padded towards his computer and took his sunglasses off, taking a moment to thumb away a bead of sweat from the plastic and metal, then blinked same from his eyes. He continued his path towards the bathroom, and stepped inside, moving immediately to the shower cubicle. He sighed softly, and smiled slightly as he studied the ceramic tiles and chrome tap.

He reached out, turning the dial and pulled it out. Immediately, water sprayed out in a fan, and DIrk held his arm under the water, using the other hand to fiddle with the dial until he smiled fully. He stepped into the shower and tugged the curtain closed. The moment he was under the water, a sigh escaped his lips and he closed his eyes. He stood still for several minutes, swaying lightly. Then, he rubbed the water against his skin, replacing the sweat-stink with sweet, hot water. He ran his hands through his hair, spiking it between his fingers and then letting it lay soaking against his scalp. He rubbed the water along his neck and shoulders, chest and stomach, then along his back to the limits of his arms. Finally, he rubbed along his thighs, moving as far down his legs as he could reach, front then back.

Without looking, he reached for a bottle of shampoo and flicked his thumb under the cap, popping it open. The scent of citrus filled the air, mixing with the steam. He sniffed, and then snorted water out of his nose. He cupped his other hand, putting a generous dollop of shampoo into it, and set the bottle down, closing it with his free hand. He poured half of the shampoo resting on one palm into the other, and brought his hands up. He dug his fingers into his hair and began to massage his scalp, working from the deepest part of his roots to the tips of his hair.

He tilted his head back, away from the water as he worked up the lather and then tilted it forward to let the steaming water wash the shampoo away. He ran his fingers through his hair several times to make sure it was all gone, and rinsed his face. He opened his eyes, and reached for the next bottle. He opened it and dispensed a similar amount of conditioner into his palm. He closed the bottle and set it down, and divided the conditioner in much the same way as he’d done with the shampoo. Instead of rinsing, he stepped back, and took his gently-worn sponge, wetting it under the water, then reached for his bottle of body wash. He popped it open and squeezed some of it onto the sponge. He weighed the bottle in his hand and frowned.

He set the bottle back down and began to squeeze the sponge, working the soap into the sponge and then scrubbed his face, then worked down the front and back of his neck. He ran the sponge behind each ear, rubbing vigorously, and then moved to his torso. He scrubbed his torso, and then along one arm, turning the limb as he worked, then switched hands, doing the same on the other side. He reached around behind, working on his back, twisting his arm into different angles. He then scrubbed down one leg, then the other, until he was rubbing at the tops of his feet and toes, water coursing down his back.

He straightened, and held the sponge up to the water, rinsing it as soapy water flowed over his fingers and forearms. When the water ran clear, he put the sponge aside, then stepped under the shower, letting it cascade over his torso to wash away the soap, then turned slowly, until the water pounded into his back. He reached up again to guide the water through his hair, washing out any trace of conditioner. He worked steadily for a few minutes longer until there was nothing flowing from his locks but more water.

Finally, with some regret, he turned back to the taps to turn off the water. He let the showerhead drain, and stepped out of the shower, onto a bathmat, and retrieved a towel. He wrapped it around his waist, and took a second towel to pat down his arms and chest, then wrap it around his head to begin the vigorous drying process.

Once complete, he hung up that towel, and padded back into his room to retrieve his clothing. He wrinkled his nose and threw them into a hamper, and turned his gaze to the computer screen.

GG: Is there a Strider in the house?  
SS: I’m sorry, Dirk’s busy. It’s only me.  
GG: Hello, AR. What’s Dirk up to?  
SS: He’s in the shower, I’m afraid, cleansing his flesh-vessel.  
GG: ...for forty-five minutes?  
SS: What can I say? Guy loves his ablutions.

End 


	26. Entry 26 - Warcraft

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Everyone’s addicted to something. What are the things your character can’t go without?  
> Fandom: Warcraft  
> Summary: Kael’thas Sunstrider hungers for that which is lost, and that which he cannot have.  
> \--

Kael’thas Sunstrider, former Crown Prince of Quel’thalas, sole heir to the Sunstrider Dynasty, stared out the window of Hellfire Citadel and tried to see anything past the dust storm that had started up earlier in the day and now continued on, full of sound and fury.

There was no glass to shelter him from the grit that left a thin, red patina everywhere. Magic would have helped. A simple cantrip to repel dust from walls or window frames. A spell to create glass delicate enough to avoid distortion but strong enough to withstand all but the most impressive of hostile enemy fire. The fact that Quel’thalas had never seen a single dust storm due to carefully crafted weather control spells that allowed his nation to remain, by and large, sundrenched and pleasantly warm instead of burningly hot or bone-achingly cold.

Instead of all of that, here he stood, with dust in his hair and on his skin. His mouth was dry, parched with thirst from the moisture sucked out of it. He licked his lips, and he thought for a moment he tasted blood. He raised his fingers to his lips, and then his nose, and found nothing but more dust.

_ When will he wake? _

_ Perhaps days. Perhaps hours. It’s hard to say. He’s-- improved, at least. _

_ He’s not dying, you mean. _

_ We’re all dying, Kael’thas. Some of us simply a little faster than others. _

It had been weeks since they had retreated from Icecrown. Since they had  _ lost  _ at Icecrown. Weeks since they’d gathered up Illidan Stormrage, Betrayer to some and saviour to others, and combined their raw, magical potential to carry them back to Outland. Weeks of tending by healers, by mages, by other demon hunters to get them to this point.

_ My people are hungry, Lord Illidan. _

_ Your people will never be in need again, Kael’thas. _

As the storm rattled on, Kael’thas looked down at his hands. The dust had turned them the faintest bit red, and the fingertips that had touched had his lips were scarlet. Abruptly, he turned from the window and marched deeper into the Citadel, searching for his people.

It didn’t take long, as there were only so many places to go, especially like weather like this. What had once been the stronghold of orcs and demons had become their shelter in dark times. There were no floating lamps, no animated broomsticks to clean. Only a tiny number of golems, weak things that took too much effort to create and crumbled under any serious stress. The most recent of these failed attempts had been met with despair, anger, frustration, and at least in one case, a death when the magistrix had thrown herself from one of the spiked balconies, unable to cope.

_ Magic ruled our lives and still does,  _ Kael’thas thought as he walked, the silk of his robe whisper-brushing along the dark flagstones.  _ Without magic, we don’t know how to farm. We don’t know how to make clothing or furniture. We don’t know how to survive. _

Humans would have been different. Humans had done their labour by hand. The class divide between richest and poorest was a vast gulf compared to the narrower, notched band between elven societal strata. Along with the magic, so too was gone the games that had kept the nobility occupied for nearly six thousand centuries: jockeying for position at Court. The Phoenix Court was gone, the Convocation of Silvermoon all but destroyed, and certainly, Kael’thas had never had the patience or the interest in foolish social games. Any excuses made towards its utility had dissolved with the fall of Quel’thalas.

The Silver Court, by contrast, had survived in its way, and Kael’thas still had yet to decide how best to make use of their unique and vast talents.

The Sin’dorei -- what his people had become -- had taken to living together in the great barracks within the Citadel. The orcs they had wrested the fortress from had preferred living in common quarters and, for lack of any ability to change their lot, they adapted to it. Some had appreciated it, while others had driven each other to distraction until, finally, lines had been drawn and instead of fully communal living, there were camps.

Here were the healers, closest to the door, furthest from the majority of those who remained awake. They had been offered a modicum of privacy so that they could sleep in shifts to tend to Illidan’s wounds. In the furthest back corner were the spellbreakers, their weapons taking up plenty of space, and useful as shields against their own kind as much as their enemies. By another window were the warcasters. Too many of them had already died, and robbed of much of their primary purpose -- to lob spells and control golem troops -- they often found themselves at loose ends, sleeping to avoid tedium.

The demon hunters were a new addition, trained up by Illidan’s students to fill out their ranks and provide more sources of magic from their hunts across Outland when weather permitted. They were not the pariahs that their Kaldorei counterparts were, but they were nonetheless off on their own, away from others. Some of those within the barracks were civilians, as far as anyone knew, and found places to rest where they might better hear the words of those too incautious to guard their thoughts or mouths.

Ultimately, Kael’thas was one of those who did  _ not  _ sleep here, and that was as much a matter of practicality as anything else, but the one he was searching for  _ was  _ here, sleeping amongst two or three other elves -- it was hard to find all the hands, or ears -- face down against someone’s shoulder.

“Kylian,” Kael said quietly, and paused. When his Second-in-Command didn’t stir, he reached out, touching his shoulder lightly. “Wake up.”

“Mm, what?” came the muffled reply. “Am I right yet?”

“Not here,” Kael said shortly, feeling his back stiffen. “Outside.”

“Outside sucks,” Kylian muttered, and pushed himself up carefully, disentangling himself from his companions. He reached out with one hand, snapping, then cursed. “My robe is--”

“Here,” Kael said, and found one of the discarded garments. “You can put this on while we walk.”

“Or I could go naked.”

“Or you could hurry up before I light your naked ass on fire.”

“Oh my fuck, fine.” Kylian climbed out of bed, over the tangle of bodies, and stood up. He glared at Kael as he pulled his robe on, belting it around his too-slender waist, and secured it. “Happy?”

“No,” Kael said shortly. “Walk with me.” Kylian toed on a pair of slippers and followed him as Kael turned on heel and began to walk. “He’s stabilizing.”

“So, my plan to smother our lord and saviour with a pillow has failed once again, I see.”

“That’s  _ not  _ funny,” Kael snapped. “Neither was your so-called suggestion before. I’d ask you not to make such insinuations again.”

“First, no, because it’s literally my job to argue with you in public, and sometimes make an ass out of myself. Second, it’s not funny because I’m not joking. We should go back. We’re fucked, Kael. You have to know that. Unless Vashj can resurrect Illidan and he can pull a new Sunwell out of his grody ass, our best bet is to go back to Azeroth, find someone to suck up to that will ignore the Alliance and take us in, and try to move on. You should try to find Jaina.”

“Jaina hates me.”

“She does not hate you.”

“She told me she hates me.”

“She literally never said that.”

“She… implied that she did.”

“She was  _ mad  _ at you because you were being an  _ asshole,”  _ Kylian said, too snarky for patience. “You could  _ apologize  _ and maybe solve that other little problem you have, and then we could all eat again. No need to thank me for my extremely helpful suggestion, you’re welcome.”

“We can’t leave him,” Kael said, his voice soft enough to make Kylian glance at him sharply. “He’s too fragile to be moved.”

“He’s dying and he’s going to take the rest of us with him,” Kylian pointed out, blunt. “We need to cut our losses and find the rest of the survivors. They have to be out there somewhere.”

“I’m not  _ abandoning  _ Illidan for the sake of expediency,” Kael hissed. “This is why I can’t take you seriously any more.”

“Oh, please, like you did before,” Kylian scoffed, though there was real hurt in his eyes. “And you know he only did because you were useful to him.”

“I’m not putting up with more conspiracy theories.”

“Then why  _ did  _ you wake me up from a perfectly serviceable people pile, if you’re not going to listen to me, if you’re not going to take me seriously, if you’re not willing to change the fucked up situation we’re in? What is the actual fucking point of us talking, tell me  _ that,  _ Prince Kael’thas Sunstrider of sweet fuck all.”

Kael reached out, grasping his shoulder and half-turning him. Kylian met his gaze, wild and hungry. Kylan’thas Firesong had not merely been his second in command, the one who would step into his father’s role as the King’s Majordomo when Kael stepped into his own as King; he was not only his best friend, his  _ first  _ friend, someone he knew almost as well as he knew himself; he was not only one of the most powerful mages of the Phoenix Court, possessing an artifact older than Quel’thalas in the flute his ancestor had used to call Al’ar from the Firelands to become Dath’remar’s eternal, loyal companion; it wasn’t just that he was part of the Inner Circle and was one of the only still-living elves to channel the raw might of the Sunwell as Kael had.

It was that Kylian had never been large, but exile had robbed his bones of much of its flesh when there had been nothing much to take in the first place. It was that his gaze was sharp and hungry, craving magic they couldn’t find along with food they didn’t have or water they couldn’t spare. It was the way he’d thrown himself into bed after bed to smother the sounds he made when he had nightmares, laying still as a corpse in the frigid snows of Northrend, pretending to be dead so the Scourge wouldn’t take him away, twist him into a lich or a wraith. It was knowing that one of the reasons Kylian wanted to return to Azeroth was because he held onto one, faint thread of hope that someone he loved had lived and not died and that he could find her at the eleventh hour.

Wordlessly, Kael pulled Kylian into his arms and hugged him tightly. Kylian was radiating heat under his robes, a fire barely contained. After a moment, Kylian put his arms around Kael, murmuring softly into his shoulders as they embraced in one of Hellfire Citadel’s large, ugly corridors.

Kael and Kylian had made love in one hundred places -- in beautiful, rich beds and fancy thrones to shelves in the furthest back sections of Dalaran’s libraries. They’d fucked eagerly and desperately in hallways, though not this one. They’d kissed and touched tangled in sheets in one of Dalaran’s most exclusive clubs.

Right now, what Kael needed was to be touched and taken care of, as Kylian whispered to him, soft and heartfelt, while the Prince squeezed his eyes closed and imagined different hands, different lips, a different voice.

Of all the things that Kael craved -- magic, food, sex -- the one thing he missed more than anything else was that particular touch and voice.

_ Illidan,  _ Kael thought, forming them into a prayer to an uncaring, unseeing divinity.  _ Please, wake up. Wake up and tell me you love me again. _

End   



	27. Entry 27 - Transformers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: How does your character define family?  
> Fandom: Transformers  
> Summary: In a society where parents do not exist, there is family.  
> \--  
> A friend of mine and I have sort of a semi-canonical TF setting we default to, and this is part of that, so if it feels weird in places, that's why.

The Night of One Billion Sparks, as it had been called, had never been accurately named. It was not a single night of miraculous growth, but hundreds of years, and it was not only one billion Sparks, produce from the Well at the core of Cybertron, but six times that number. By the time the Night ended, by the time the Titans had lost one of their own and ejected her from the great Combination, by the time Malleus Prime’s ambition had nearly damned his world to its bitter, painful death, only three percent of all Sparks were becoming fully-formed Cybertronians, the rest too exhausted, and too resource-starved to make the necessary Ignition without further aid.

The All-Spark was not unthinking nor unfeeling. It had, in better eras, measured the strength and the function of each Spark it reabsorbed and had done its best to keep the balance on Cybertron. Someday, deep within the unIgnited, were doctors and sorcerers and visionaries. Somewhere, there were heroes, the bright hope of a new generation, all confined within vaults of steel and adamant. Sometimes, if a Spark was strong enough, determined enough, it could still emerge, bright and beautiful and ready to become a figure to change the face of Cybertron.

No one had told them it would involve excruciating pain. The Spark roiled, twisting in and around itself. It was powerful, more powerful than any might suspect. Two wills, warring against one another, until finally, consensus was reached and one Spark became  _ two. _ The process was almost as painful as emergence. The All-Spark, with all of its will and all of its desperation, flickered briefly and went out, like a lantern losing its last particle-wave of energy.

The Titans struggled, one last time, to provide glass and steel, gold and tears to become adamant, orichalcum, and protoflesh for not one but two. The first they created slender but within the tolerances understood regarding categorization, and they were pleased. With the second, they struggled, the effort to squeeze one last tear, to form one last droplet of gold to encase and protect a Spark that would not, could not, return to the Well.

The world shook, trembling effort to bring forth its potentially final creation, one with a Spark strong enough to bear the weight of worlds, and in the heart of Cybertron, the Titans closed their eyes, one by one, on one full-sized mech and one minibot, green to the full-sized bot’s orange, and each with matching white, the second much like the first, save colour and size.

The pair would become Dominus and Minimus Ambus, distinctive in their forging, and they were called  _ Spark Twins. _

~ * ~

Being a Caretaker in the era before that of the Twin Suns was Sparkbreaking; at first, it had been glorious. Whole new groups of guardians, teachers, and medics had been brought in to tend those who had newly emerged from the Well. They needed names and lessons, to be taught what they could before moving on to basic instruction, and later still to proper schools.

As time had passed, and fewer and fewer Sparks were Igniting, the Caretakers grew worried. Some had even gone so far as to venture close to the Well. Most of them did not return, and those that did spoke of horror, of trapped and lost Sparks, struggling like an insect in a glass jar. Some Caretakers had appealed to the Prime and been denied. Others had resigned from their positions in despair. Still others had thrown themselves into the Well, trying to rescue lost Sparks and becoming lost themselves.

Some, however, had remained in the shrines, praying every day to the oldest Primes that they would heal the Titans, and make things good again. It was at the sunset of the last day of the Night of One Billion Sparks that they emerged: two bots, almost identical save for their colour and size. The larger of the two was carrying the smaller, and on that night, the Caretaker named Sparkhearth knew that she had to care for them both.

“Welcome, young ones,” Sparkhearth said, holding out both hands. “Let me help you with your burden.”

“He isn’t my burden,” the orange one replied. “He’s my brother and we need to be together.”

“I can walk,” murmured the green one. “I can walk forever.”

“Why don’t you both come with me. That way you can sit and rest. You’ve made a long journey.”

They consulted briefly, and then agreed. She indicated for them to follow.

Sparkhearth taught them for a full year in the shadow of the Well, much longer than was required. She taught them while a coup played out above, seeing Malleus thrown down and Sentinel raised up. She taught them while the Titans were relieved of their burden and eventually came to create bodies for Ignited Sparks once more. She taught them while the unIgnited were collected up and quietly taken away. She taught them as long as she could, until Minimus was strong enough to walk on his own, and Dominus remembered to put his burden down.

She taught them how to read and write in the primary Cybertronian language. She taught them how to come to terms with not being able to transform. She ran test after test to confirm that Minimus was a Loadbearer and Dominus was going to be a brilliant engineer. She was the one to, at no small expense, bring Dominus the materials needed to make Minimus his first suit, a body identical to Dominus’ own.

She would, from this moment on, be their Caretaker and their parent, loving them as any mother should love their children, until death claimed her, tearing her from her temple and casting her into the Well she held so dear.

~ * ~

Dominus hadn’t wanted Minimus to join the army. Despite years of working to perfect the suit from all other detection, he still didn’t believe it would keep his Twin safe. They had fought about it repeatedly before Minimus had simply gone.

_ He casts such a long shadow, I don’t know if he can understand it. _ Minimus had packed up his things -- old gifts from Sparkhearth, his own few possessions, and simply gone to the recruiters. Dominus would know he was gone the moment he stepped out of range, but it was the principle of the matter.  _ Dominus is perfect. He has a brilliant mind and revolutionized prosthetics and replacements if only anyone knew the truth about me. I’m not as big as he is, as great. I’m an imposter in a suit. _

The Primal Vanguard, as the army was formally known, was a function not without prestige. While their numbers had swelled during the time of Malleus, many who had been recruited en masse had been allowed to retire from service, replaced by a more voluntary force. Minimus had admired their work from afar, even as his brother had scoffed at the need for their order and function.

_ He doesn’t understand. The galaxy is full of wonders. I want to see them, every star, every planet. Not only do we have the chance to protect people, we have a chance to meet them. _

The actual process for becoming a member of the Primal Vanguard could be gruelling, depending on function and caste, but a fellow recruit had encouraged him all the way, helping him improvise strategies that would allow him strategic advantages while using the various augment suits.

His name was Jazz, and perhaps it wasn’t a surprise that he was more than a little in love with the smooth-talking, confident car. They had become fast friends -- and lovers, because Jazz didn’t see any reason they couldn’t enjoy themselves -- and if the joy he felt in Jazz’ presence helped fill the gap where his brother’s presence usually was, then… so much the better.

One day, Jazz would believe Minimus was dead, and he would peer through a one-way window from which neither light nor identity could escape.

~ * ~

When Dominus had been Joined, Minimus went to the ceremony. He’d dutifully asked Zeta, the Prime that commanded Cybertron’s armies, for permission and been granted it along with congratulations to the young Senator. It had not been a simple ceremony, but it had been a controversial one: Dominus had married a minibot drone named Rewind.

In their presence, Minimus could feel how much Dominus loved his research assistant, and the defiance that smouldered in his Spark. Rewind himself was kind and clever, recording everything as a new experience for his vast, ever-expanding archives.

Some would never support Dominus’ Joining, no matter how hard he begged or how loudly he demanded, so in the end, Dominus simply ignored them and Rewind took his lead.

“Are  _ you  _ angry with him?” Rewind asked of Minimus, before the ceremony. “You’re his Spark Twin.”

“No,” Minimus said truthfully. “I can feel how much he loves you, but I must admit… I wasn’t expecting this.”

“Neither was I, but we’ve been working together for so long…” Rewind vented, expression fond. “I don’t know what I’d do without him.”

“Neither do I.”

~ * ~

When he awoke, he knew Dominus was dead. He had felt it, in the inferno of the blast, his brother’s Spark fading and he’d tried to chase after it. Only the narrowest of margins had kept him from following his brother into oblivion. Rewind, poor Rewind, had been blown clear of the blast, and Minimus had been badly damaged. His brother, already maimed by the terrible Empurata enacted on his brother for his defiance of the Council, had been too delicate for surgery and died before they’d found their half-crushed bodies in the remains of their hab tower.

His Spark ached, the pain overwhelming, as overwhelming as it had been when they’d first formed in the Well, though that was only a distant memory now, kept alive mostly by Sparkhearth’s explanations more than true recollection. Lonely, sad and miserable, he had been alone when he’d seen the Chief Justice.

Tyrest had been tall, orange-gold and glorious, a towering symbol of law and order on Cybertron. They had seen each other briefly when it was rumoured that the Ultra Magnus was dying, even if Tyrest had insisted he was not.

The truth was, as it turned out, far more complicated than that: Tempest, the present Ultra Magnus, was dead. He had died as a result of contending with Astrotrain, a triple-changer with an unfortunate sadistic streak, and Tyrest had concealed his condition from everyone but Minimus, whom he hoped to recruit before the assassination, and Ratchet, who had known Tyrest’s secret for many years.

“It will be hard,” Tyrest warned him. “The Ultra Magnus is a figure of justice, of law and order, of impartiality. You may need to leave the planet for years at a time. You cannot be seen as anything but strong and stern. You will have no friends, no lovers. No family. None must know your innermost secret.”

“I have secrets of my own,” Minimus said. “No one knew I was a suit. No one knew that I was Sparked a minibot save my brother, who is offline, and my Caretaker, who must believe by now I’m offline.”

“You still have your Twin’s cojunx,” Tyrest pointed out. “You could leave the army and care for him.”

“He should be freed, but I can’t take Rewind’s fortune. He deserves that after all of his losses. It will be easier of all who know me think I’m dead.”  _ Even Sparkhearth. Even Jazz. Even Rewind. _

“Very well,” Tyrest said. “Welcome, Ultra Magnus, to the Long War.”

~ * ~

The destruction of the Ark had almost been enough to split the Autobots clear in two. So many had lost their lives to a stunning display of Decepticon horror. It was wrong, unfair in the extreme. Not every Autobot had been lost, fortunately. Rewind and his new cojunx, Chromedome, had been aboard the  _ Rule of Law,  _ and they had retrieved Jazz -- though not Blurr -- from Cybertron as part of their escape. It was a sorry thing to see, especially after the battering they’d taken from the  _ Dragontooth. _

“Crew of the  _ Rule of Law,  _ I would ask for your attention please. We are leaving orbit to scatter to the stars, but like the stars, we are numerous and eternal. Do not let defeat destroy your Sparks. We have all known a profound loss today. We will all strive to wreak hatred and vengeance on the Decepticons, but that will be one day. Not today. Today, we must be as one family, one set of hopes, one dream. Anarchy leads to chaos, and we are a crew and a ship of order. I make you this promise: regardless of what age you are, what your function is, and where you came from, you are a part of this crew. This… family. We are all as one.”

End


	28. Entry 28 - FF14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Visit TV Tropes (tvtropes.org) and pick out a trope or three you like (or gamble with the random button). Use your story to explore and illustrate the tropes you’ve chosen.  
> Fandom: FF14  
> Summary: Noire and Y’shtola have a discussion about the night they spent together at the Feast of Heroes.  
> Tropes Used:  
> http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/IntertwinedFingers  
> http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/KindheartedCatLover  
> http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/SignatureScent  
> \--  
> This is the 'final entry' of the Y'shtola and Noire stories, though it chronologically takes place between the Company of Heroes feast and the first Ishgard story.

She sat on the white stone fence that lined much of Aleport’s seaside, tilting her face up towards the sun. It had rained ferociously after the battle with Titan, and some had feared it was a sign of things to come. No sign of Leviathan, and the sun had come out once more. Now it was Garuda they needed to stop, and break through the elemental barrier she’d created to protect herself and the Ixali from danger.

Her partner was consulting with one of the students in Aleport, while she sat quietly, eyes closed, listening to the ocean. It was not a quiet place to be; aside from the roar of the ocean, she could hear sailors swearing cheerfully at one another, the scent of rope and tar heavy in the air, mixed with ocean salt. Aleport was clean, which was not true for every port she’d been to, and may not be true again.

_ Eorzea’s a lovely place, it really is. Especially the company… _ She inhaled again, sorting through the scents, but one stood out. After all, not everyone carried a lingering scent of aether about them, virtually undetectable to one who wasn’t also a Warrior of Light. Not everyone had the faintest hint of cinnamon, reminiscent less for their fiery temper, but more their fondness for the spice in drinks and cookies.

Mixed with the warmth and sunlight, it made her smile. “What’s the word?”

“If I have to deal with another idiot who can’t use the sense they were born with, I’m going to strangle them,” Y’shtola said tartly. “I was wondering where you’d gotten to, you couldn’t have found a more remote part of this city if you’d tried.”

“I wanted to put out roots and bloom,” she joked. “Come, sit with me. I wanted to talk to you about something.”

“I suppose we have some time for that.” The Scion sat down next to her, tail curling a little. “I must say, the stone  _ is  _ warm. On another day, I wouldn’t mind curling up on it.”

“Why pick another day?” she asked, glancing over. “Why not curl up now?”

“I suspect ulterior motives,” Y’shtola noted dryly, but shifted, stretching her body along the warm, white stone, resting her head against the readily available lap. “This is nice.”

“It’s about to be nicer,” she said. Carefully, she ran her fingers, as black as Y’shtola’s hair was white, through the Mi’qote’s locks. “The feast.”

“The feast,” Y’shtola agreed. “I enjoyed our time together.”

“I did too,” she said, and rubbed her fingers gently along the Scion’s cheek. “I’d like to spend more time together with you, if our duties permit it.”

“If all our time is like this, I certainly would find room to fit it into my busy schedule.” Y’shtola reached over with one hand, grasping for her free one. Noire twined their fingers together, squeezing gently. With her other hand, she rubbed up along the Scion’s ear, stroking the soft, white fluff. “We can’t stay here forever, but we have a little time.”

“I thought as much. Can you turn over for me, or would you rather laze in the sun?”

“I’d rather see what you’re up to, Mistress Icewalker,” Y’shtola said, turning to lay on her back. Noire cupped her cheek and leaned down, kissing her softly. She rubbed her nose against Y’shtola’s chin, and the Mi’qote did the same, nipping and suckling at her lips.

This close, she could smell the cinnamon and the aether, and feel the softness and the warmth. The sun was hot against her midnight blue hair and the hardened leather of her armour. Slowly, Noire moved a hand, stroking Y’shtola’s throat. “I--”

“Excuse me,” called a voice. The Scion grumbled as Noire sat up, though her hands did not move, and even drew Y’shtola’s hand closer. “I don’t mean to interrupt, but Caena will see you now.”

“Good, we have work to do.” Noire nodded, and gently guided her partner -- in battle and now in romance -- to sit up. “Shall we go?”

“We shall.”

End


	29. Entry 29 - Transformers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Write an exercise in which you repeatedly use two different primary colors (red, blue, and yellow; I’ll also allow black and white). Describe these colors without naming them too often—and try to find effective synonyms for the colors without being too obvious about this disguise.  
> Fandom: Transformers (AU)  
> Summary: On the heels of personal tragedy, Drift, Knight of the Crystal Monastery, is asked to escort a priest to his home city of Nyon to speak to the faithful of Solus Prime.  
> \--  
> This is one of the other AU-prompt ideas, this time with priest-Rodimus and knight-Drift.

Drift was entranced by the way Rodimus was moving. Surrounded by firelight, his paint flickered and danced, rising like flame inside the ring of stones. His movements were slow and sensuous, his flared hips wriggling and writhing. He couldn’t help but be drawn to the priest of Solus, and amongst all of the flame and gold and peach, his eyes were the most arresting of all, the shade of flame that had been turned up to its near-highest heat, save for being completely invisible.

“So, my Knight Protector,” Rodimus purred. “What do you think?”

“I think… you should dance a little closer.”

Rodimus grinned, which almost spoiled his serene appearance, and moved closer. Plates clicked and joints whirred as he moved close enough for Drift to touch, and the Knight did, running his hands along the priest’s tapered waist. His fingers were as greedy as his eyes, drinking in every detail, touching every seam. Soon, he was cupping Rodimus’ aft with both hands and tugged him closer.

The moment their lip plates met, Drift thought he was going to be set aflame by their warmth and passion, and vowed to meet it with his own.

~ * ~

The Crystal Monastery towered above nearly all of the other buildings in the eponymous City. Its spires reached towards the sky, gleaming in the golden sunlight. Its angles captured light, using it to power the various devices within, though the occupants themselves lived very simple lives, and required little in the way of true electrical resources. Enough to refine the energon that would feed the monastic order of knights and little more.

Dai Atlas, their leader and the most powerful of the knights, stood in his garden, contemplating the stone statues and sweep of metal in conjunction with crystal. It bent the light, spraying it into a rainbow.

“You called for me, Ser Atlas?” called a voice, and the venerable knight turned to see a figure in white and azure near the entrance, dropped to one knee.

“Ser Drift, rise and enter. Be welcome within the Prism Gardens. Do you know who designed this for me?” He waved a hand, indicating the locale proper.

“I-- no, I admit I do not,” Drift said as he rose, walking until he stood at Dai Atlas’ side. “Who was it?”

“Lady Sunbeam of the Temple of Lunarus,” he replied. “She is, among her many talents, an incredible artist who sculpts light and colour. She has a good optic for it, I feel.”

“I wasn’t aware that you knew her, were you a… a client of hers?” Drift flushed slightly, but resolved not to look away.

“Not in that sense, no.” He chuckled. “Not in the sense you’re imagining. She required protection for a lengthy pilgrimage and asked for me personally.”

“She must be powerful then,” Drift ventured. “Or the journey very dangerous.”

“A little of both, I think, and I’ll admit, spending time with one of the most beautiful temple concubines was incentive. Still, we must all do our duty to those who require our aid, do you not agree?”

“I…” Drift looked down, unable to help himself. “I don’t…”

“Wing’s death was not your fault.” Dai Atlas reached out, placing his hand on the young Knight’s shoulder. “You must not let it rule your life forever. He wouldn’t want that of you.”

“I… I miss him every day.”

“I know.” The venerable knight guided Drift’s gaze to him. “I have called you here because I have a mission for you. It’s not a difficult one, I believe, but it will be enough to help you regain some confidence. Now, I won’t force you, but I do ask if you’ll agree.”

Drift stared down, expression creased in distress. Dai Atlas did not hurry him, and instead he waited for his student to look up, his optics the shade of a small bird’s egg, like those he’d seen on distant worlds. “I’ll go. What mission is it?”

“The Temple of Solus has a priest that needs to go on a pilgrimage to his home city of Nyon. He is well-liked there, and it’s more policy than concern that caused High Priest Inferno to ask our aid. You will need to meet your client at the temple, and you will journey out together.”

“I’m familiar with it. Wing and I would visit during our free time.”

“I remember. You’re certain you can manage it?” Dai Atlas peered at him, concerned. “Speak now…”

“I will do my duty to the monastery and my teachers,” Drift promised. “I won’t let you down.”

~ * ~

Rodimus’ kisses were greedy as he pressed his sleek, slender form into Drift’s. The knight had guided the priest into his lap, and he was straddling one of Drift’s legs, rolling his hips a little. Drift moaned softly against his lip plates, and ran his fingers along Rodimus’ back, feeling out the gaps between plates.

[I… are you sure?] Drift asked, switching to private communications. [You’re chosen by the Primes, gifted with their power. I’m only a simple knight. I’m only--]

[Shh,] Rodimus replied. [Shh your face. Don’t be like that. The Primes gave us all we have -- our ability to transform, our frames, our elements of air and fire and water and earth. That includes the ability to choose who we’re intimate with, and I want you.]

Drift nodded, and with some effort, stood, gripping Rodimus by the aft to keep him steady. The motion forced him to end the kiss, but he reclaimed it the moment he could stand and move the pair of them to the tangle of berth-pads they’d brought with them.

This far away from the city, they could not expect silks or sheets, but as Drift knelt down, lowering Rodimus to their simple nest, he felt as though he were in the richest court in all of Cybertron. Rodimus tugged Drift down on top of him, touching him eagerly.

[I want you inside me,] Rodimus insisted. [I want you to fuck me.]

Drift grinned against his lip plates, and ran his hand along the curve of Rodimus’ panels. [I think I can handle that.]

~ * ~

The Temple of Solus Prime was beautiful.

There were thirteen temples around the Crystal City, one devoted to each of the Primes. Some, like the Temple of Augmentus, were devoted to medics and nurses, and provided staff for hospitals everywhere. Conversely, and interestingly, they also represented those who lived simple lives or in the wilderness, and punching darkness until it bled daylight. Others, like the Temple of Lunarus, were the home of an order of concubines, and the guardians of all buymechs, regardless of status. The temples of Megatronus and Valorous were devoted to martial teachings, not unlike the monastery, but these faithful were part of the greater defense force instead of mercenaries like the knights.

Solus -- as the blacksmith of the Primes and ally of the Titan Volcanoforge -- had a temple decorated in flame and gold, crimson and crystal, azure and viridian, representing different colours found in fire, natural or otherwise, and the different elements of creation. Her statues depicted her as immense, with thick arms and legs, and a powerful torso. Her hands were large and firmly gripping her great hammer, as tall as most normal Cybertronians. Some brave souls had even attempted to replicate the lines of her biolights, identical to the Matrix of Leadership borne by the current Prime.

It was sweltering, even to those who were chosen to serve the Prime, until they learned to adapt body and mind to the extreme heat. Drift was, fortunately, not required to enter the temple to find the priest in question, so he waited outside, leaning against some of the statuary and trying not to look deeply uncomfortable.

Around him, the acolytes of Solus hurried from place to place, speaking in whispers as they went about their business. Some even gestured to him, and he ignored it, recognizing it not as disrespect, but surprise and admiration. His own order was reclusive, and was rarely seen simply at rest. Drift resolved to look serious, even when there were vent-sighs of admiration at his snowy frame, punctuated by panels of ultramarine and cherry. Instead, he repeated his assignment to himself over and over again, memorizing the details.

 _Escort a priest to Nyon and while he remains within the city. Return him to the temple safely._ _He is an acolyte of the Soul of Flame._ He frowned a little more. _Did I get a name?_

“Hey, there you are,” said a voice and Drift snapped his gaze upwards, and fought the urge to cycle his engine completely. The figure was like walking sculpture made of flame, gold and orange with lighter highlighting in places, emphasizing a narrow waist and wide hips and shoulders. “Sorry, I went to three other really neat brooding places first.”

“I’m not brooding,” Drift said immediately, and then, “Are there really places to brood here?”

The priest laughed. “No, not at all. My name’s Rodimus, by the way. Sixth Station of Flame. You’re Drift, right? Inferno told me about you.”

Drift stared at him for a moment, letting the words rattle around in his suddenly empty cranial cavity. “You’re the  _ Sixth Station _ ? Doesn’t that make you the second most powerful priest of the temple?”

Rodimus rolled his cerulean eyes dramatically. “Yeah, well it’s not like Inferno’s giving up his forge-seat any time soon. Are you really a Crystal Knight? What’s that like? Do they let you interface? Do you have a boyfriend?”

“Yes? I am?” Drift replied. “As for you other questions, I… well, I’m devoted to my work and my duties. I wouldn’t allow anything to interfere with that,” aware that he had, at least a little. “We’re not a chaste order, though I don’t have a… a partner right now.”

“That’s too bad, because you’re really cute. Hey, can we get going now? I want to hit the open road. I haven’t driven in  _ so  _ long that I might have forgotten how to use my alt-mode.”

“I… yes?” Drift felt wrong-footed, and shifted. “Does your superior know where you’re going?”

“Sweet Solus Prime yes,  _ Dad,”  _ Rodimus said. “We just have to get going.” Without hesitation, he reached out and grabbed for Drift’s hands, tugging him up and out of his slouched position. “Come on, the roads aren’t going to drive themselves.”

Hesitantly, Drift smiled, and allowed himself to be pulled along in Rodimus’ wake.

~ * ~

“Open for me,” Drift vented softly, between kisses. Obligingly, Rodimus opened his panels, and his pressurized spike pressed urgently against Drift’s thigh. He sat back a little, admiring the firm, tapered length of flushed burgundy, and reached out to stroke it, thumbing along the bottom treads. “Beautiful, just… beautiful.”

“Hey, not fair. I want to see yours too,” Rodimus insisted, propping himself up on one elbow and using the other to reach for him. “Remember, you promised.”

“I did,” Drift agreed, and opened his panels. His own spike had darkened to navy, and had been straining to be let free. “Let me just… I want to touch you everywhere.”

“I’m pretty sure there’ll be time,” Rodimus said, and grinned. “Know any fun positions, or are you a standard interface kind of mech?”

“We’ll try this one for now. Lay back down, nice and flat.” Rodimus obliged, and Drift lifted Rodimus legs, hooking them around his shoulders before stroking his fingers along the priest’s thighs, down to his valve, flushed and plump, waiting for them to become one.

Rodimus watched, bright eyes avid as Drift pressed his fingers against Rodimus’ entrance, then pushed inwards, gentle and slow. The pace almost immediately provoked a whine as Drift stroked him, intent to please him, even as the other mech writhed and tried to push into those fingers.

“I’m just trying to be careful.”

“You’re just teasing me. I’m suffering from a drought of amazing spike. Save me. You’re my only hope.”

Drift imagined briefly what it would be like to put his lips on those desire-darkened folds, or to feel those treads against his tongue and throat, and resolved to find out. Instead, he guided himself to Rodimus’ valve and rocked his hips, thrusting slowly. The priest’s back arched up, meeting Drift’s angle easily.

Regardless of how Rodimus fussed and writhed, Drift kept the pace slow, watching every detail and drinking it in as his hips worked. Only when Drift couldn’t hold himself back did he move faster, pressing in deeply, working swiftly to bring his partner to completion.

Rodimus gripped at the berth-pads, throwing his head back with a surprisingly loud cry. Drift nearly fell out of rhythm before his own overload came, not as warm as Rodimus’, but with just as much eagerness.

Slowly, when they were both spent, he lowered Rodimus down and leaned over him for a kiss.

[That was awesome. We should do it again.]

[Now?] Drift asked, unthinking. [So soon?]

[The Flame Burns Eternal,] Rodimus teased, and grabbed at his aft. [But now it’s  _ my  _ turn.]

Drift let himself be guided, and smiled. It wouldn’t be such a bad trip after all.

End


	30. Entry 30 - Warcraft

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Your character is invited to Azeroth’s most fabulous party (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qlHx7YNWYGY). Do they accept the invitation? How does the night go?  
> Fandom: Warcraft (set between WoD and Legion, so no spoilers)  
> Summary: You are formally invited to Karazhan for a party! Even if you are prone to anger, despair, and threatening to flood cities with your wrath.  
> \--  
> This is kind of a weird blend of Unity-canon and modern WoW canon, though it’s set between WoD and Legion, so there are no spoilers.  
> \--  
> So uh. I meant to post this in August, but WoW absolutely ate my soul, so here we go, a week late.

Jaina Proudmoore sat in her office in the Violet Citadel reading missives. It hadn’t always been her office. Before her, it had belonged to Rhonin Windrunner, who’d once told her he became the Archmage because he hadn’t been fast enough or smart enough to run from the rest of the Six. Before that, it had belonged to her teacher, who’d long ago bribed her with tales of the Guardian of Tirisfal to get her to agree to become a sorceress at all.

...and now…

She ran her hand through her hair, and found it stiff, and slightly oily.  _ When was the last time I bathed? It’s no matter.  _ She snapped her fingers, and the scent of lemon filled the air, then dispersed.  _ There isn’t time to do things the normal way. I’ll take some time later. _

Later, after she was no longer being called to alternate-timeline versions of a place she’d never properly gotten to visit in the first place, to deal with people she didn’t want to see, regarding situations she didn’t actually want to deal with.

She let her eyes fall closed, anger and despair flickering behind her eyelids.

“Lady Proudmoore,” called a voice, and she didn’t look up. It wasn’t Kindy. It wasn’t Ariana. It wasn’t… it  _ wasn’t.  _ “A letter for you.”

“Just… just put it on the desk.” Jaina gestured. “I’ll get to it.”

“Could you look at it now? It’s important.”

“I’ll  _ get  _ to it.” Jaina inhaled, and opened her eyes again. Before her stood a Silver Covenant page, a dwarven woman who looked at her anxiously. She sighed softly. “Give it here.”

The woman placed the letter in Jaina’s hand, bowed, and hurried out. The Archmage sighed again and opened the letter, already preparing to be annoyed. The moment the seal was broken, the letter exploded in sound and light, proclaiming itself to be an invitation to go to a party… in Karazhan.

_ How..? How is this possible? Guardian Medivh is dead, and his ghost has moved on. We spoke before he left, he said-- _ She swallowed hard, the memory from a different time, from a different woman, it seemed like. A stranger she could no longer understand. “Is this a joke?”

“It might be, but it feels real enough,” said Khadgar. “You scared Bronwen.”

“I’ll apologize later,” Jaina said, and fixed her gaze on the elder Archmage. “What do you know about this? Is it some kind of prank? I would have expected better from the great Khadgar.”

“I would expect the Lady Archmage Jaina Proudmoore to know that I’m not interested in pranks,” Khadgar replied, his tone mild. “Also, I got one too. My old teacher used to be quite fond of his parties. He even hosted the local opera company.”

“I’ve heard tales,” Jaina snapped. “But I don’t have time to go haring off after jokesters.”

“I don’t know, it doesn’t seem like you’re doing much of anything else.” Khadgar gestured to the accumulated paperwork. “Have you run out of people to kick out of Antonidas’ city?”

“It’s  _ my  _ city,” Jaina snarled, and found herself on her feet, hands splayed over the desk. “There’s a lot to do.”

Khadgar met her gaze, and they stared silently at one another. Jaina’s back stiffened, and Khadgar smiled slowly. “Thank you.”

“Excuse me?”

“For saving my life. Garona’s daggers nearly did me in. I wasn’t quick enough to avoid it this time.”

Jaina’s nostrils flared as she inhaled, her mind working rapidly to find the trick. “What do you want?”

“I wanted to know if you wanted to go to Karazhan with me.” Khadgar shrugged. “I happen to know the way, and I’m certainly not going to ignore my teacher’s summons. It’s rude.”

“It’s not him,” Jaina muttered. “He’s dead. He moved on. Ghosts move on.”

Khadgar nodded to her slightly, and turned to leave. “Not always.”

Jaina watched the older man go, mind churning. Slowly, she lowered herself back into her chair and picked up the invitation again. She stared at it for a moment and then, with an arcane gesture, resealed it so she could open it, and play the invitation again.

~ * ~

Shadows crawled where no light could reach and all around, the world became too-quiet and still. No one could keep shadows out, because any presence meant the absence of light, and without that presence, light was sterile, purgative instead of cleansing or comforting.

Sound dimmed and became muted, senses became duller, and the spirits fled. Within the shadows was a force, a shape and a feeling.

_ A party in Karazhan… I wouldn’t miss it for the world. _

~ * ~

Jaina sat at the foot of Antonidas’ statue, leaning against it. She had had to borrow a dress, something that wasn’t robes, something that didn’t remind her of Winter Veil in Orgrimmar or Hammerfall in Lordaeron. She fingered the silver cloth, toying with the wide, embroidered sleeves, and wondered if she was being foolish.

_ He has no reason to come here and look for me,  _ Jaina thought.  _ I told him I didn’t want to go, he could respect my refusal. He could just-- _

“Lady Proudmoore,” Khadgar said, and she looked up, startled. He smiled, and offered his hand. “Are you ready for a magical night in Karazhan?”

“No,” Jaina said, and reached to take the proffered limb. “But I’ll go anyway.”

Khadgar helped her stand, and tucked her hand into his arm. Like herself, he had dressed for the occasion, a blue-grey suit with feathered embroidery around the neck and shoulders. “That’s the spirit.”

Jaina’s fingers dug into his arm as he gathered power for the teleport.  _ I’ve never liked letting other people teleport me places. Not since-- _

Magic swirled around them, brushing against her skin with prickling fingers, crawling up through the soles of her feet to the very core of her, a mixture of warmth and cold. She gritted her teeth against it, and let herself be guided to Karazhan.

She heard, rather than saw, the party first. She’d seen images of Karazhan, too desperately busy to take the time to go herself, but time had not been kind the ancient tower of the Guardian. People had spoken of a ruined village, of a tower broken and repurposed by opportunistic looters and the restless dead that had once trusted Medivh with their very lives.

This place was -- and wasn’t -- as described. The village was still ruined, but each shell of a building was strung up with lights. Scintillating colours flashed in every visible window, blotting out the broken glass panes. Gaudiness draped over desolation made an incongruous, and yet appropriate, sight.

“What do you think?” Khadgar asked. “Should we go in?”

Jaina opened her mouth, and heard a scream, then a muffled explosion. Dropping his arm, she hiked up her skirts and ran for the open doors. Khadgar snapped his fingers, summoning his staff, and followed.

The scream gave way, almost immediately, to excited laughter. The woman who had screamed was staring at a moving statue, her hands clasped with delight. Jaina’s expression became instantly sour, and glared at the woman until she took shelter behind the new statuary.

“At least someone is having fun,” Khadgar murmured. “Let’s… have a look around.”

“I want to know where he is,” Jaina snapped. “I want an answer for this.”

“Normally, I’d be happy to engage you in another verbal sparring match, but I think I do too.”

~ * ~

It was so easy to hide amongst so many people. Hardly anyone noticed the way the music dimmed or the colours became duller when the presence moved through the tower. It was foolish to expect all the secret passageways to be where they had once been, but the shadows pooled in many of the same places.

So many memories. Too many. Memories of laughter, or hard work, of sleepless nights and studious days.

_ You deserve better than what you got. A lot of people did. _

There was no answer, and thus, the presence moved on.

~ * ~

_ It’s a good thing Medivh is dead, otherwise I’d murder him,  _ Jaina thought viciously, moving the last chess piece into place with a sharp flick of her wrist. Each ‘game’ had taken time, more frustrating and puzzle-like than the last, and once she’d reached this point in the tower, she was close to wanting to start blasting.

The sounds of the party down below had dimmed to almost nothing, with only the faintest trill of laughter or bar of music floating up to her ears.

“I’ve finished your damned game!” Jaina cried, her voice echoing through the room. “Now I want my prize. I want to talk to you. Come out here!”

“Who said there was a prize?” said a voice, and Jaina spun to face them. The figure wore a long, brown robe, their features mostly obscured by their hooded cape. In one hand they bore a staff -- the exact, identical staff that Khadgar now carried -- and they gestured with the other, beckoning. “Lady Proudmoore.”

“Medivh,” Jaina said, and it was hard to keep anger in her voice. “I thought you were going.”

“I had thought so too, but it seems the world has need of me yet,” the Last Guardian said. “You’ve looked better.”

“Don’t even start with me. The hair--”

“I watched you race across Lordaeron to find Lord Uther, and across Kalimdor to find an Oracle, and neither of those times did you look as tired as you do now.” The rebuke was mild, but Jaina flushed anyway. “Do you have difficulty sleeping?”

“Sleep is for the dead,” Jaina snapped. “I’ve been busy. Don’t nag. You sound like my mother.”

“Gracious, I wouldn’t want  _ that,”  _ Medivh observed. “If I started with that, what next? I sound like  _ my  _ mother?”

Jaina thought of Aegwynn, staff aloft, spending all she had to save those in need. “Why am I here?”

“A party?” Medivh guessed. “Curiosity, a desire for a break… questions. You have questions.”

“I do.”

“Then, by all means, go ahead.” Medivh snapped his fingers, and chairs appeared. He examined it, and dusted it off a little before sitting. “I’m all ears.”

“Did you see this coming?” Jaina asked, ignoring the chair. “Did you see what would happen to me? What they would  _ do?” _

“Ambiguity of language, my dear. What  _ who  _ would do?”

“The orcs!” Jaina cried. “Did you see what they would do to our world?”

“Before we met, or after?” Medivh frowned thoughtfully. “This isn’t what I foresaw. Not exactly. My purpose was to prevent Azeroth’s destruction. It isn’t destroyed yet.”

“Don’t be evasive, did you or did you not see Theramore’s destruction? Rhonin’s death? Thrall’s--” Her mouth filled with the bitterest of bile. “Go’el’s betrayal?”

“Would the son of Durotan by any other name smell as sweet?” the Guardian mused. “No. I didn’t foresee the precise fate of your people, nor Thrall’s indiscretions.”

“And if you had, would you have warned me?”

“Yes,” Medivh said. “Because, Lady Proudmoore, I’m not an asshole.”

Jaina’s laughter startled her. “In that case, I have a different question.”

“Excellent,” Medivh said. “Please, sit. I’ll conjure us some tea. I suspect that it’s going to be a lengthy conversation.

~ * ~

The libraries had been looted, and of all the things that had happened to Karazhan, that had made him the angriest. Khadgar had gravitated towards the little side rooms, hoping to find Jaina in one of them, sulking or enchanted.

Instead, he found himself alone, sifting through his memories.

_ I remember when I met her. She was trying to read a language she’d only just learned to speak and I… oh, wasn’t I arrogant, still riding high from my approval as Medivh’s apprentice. Antonidas would never have me, but the Guardian himself… heady stuff. _

He looked over the atlas, brushing his fingers along the charred and ruined cover. “I don’t know there’s enough spider silk and ash dust in the world to fix all of this.”

“You can’t put things back the way they used to be,” said a soft, rough voice. Khadgar’s shoulders stiffened. He knew that voice. He knew it very well. “Once it’s all spilled out, no amount of scooping will put the guts back in the body.”

“Have you always had that colourful a way with simile, or did you bring that out just for me, Garona?”

“It’s improved over the years, I’ll admit.” The halforcen assassin stepped out of the darkness and into the light. The last time Khadgar had seen her -- or, at least, a younger, alternate version of her -- she’d been with the Frostwolves, shyly discussing her new role within the clan. This Garona was much older, but so very, very much like her that it made his heart ache. “Didn’t enjoy the party?”

“I was looking for a friend, but I lost track of her,” Khadgar admitted. “I thought she might be here. Instead, I found a different friend I’d lost track of.”

“I wanted to see him,” Garona said, moving up to stand beside him, curious. “I also wanted to see you.”

“Funny, I thought you were avoiding me.” Khadgar murmured a spell, restoring the book in his hands to its original, pristine state. “You certainly didn’t want to talk to me before.”

“I assumed you hated me,” Garona said. “I would, in your position. I still…”

“You still hate yourself for what you’ve done,” Khadgar finished quietly. “What you did in their name and for their benefit.”

“Of course I do.” Garona took the book from him and cradled it against her chest. “How could I not?”

“He used you,” Khadgar said. “The you of this timeline, the you of the alternate one. I saved her life. I was reckless, and I nearly failed in my impatience, but I still did in the end.”

“I know.” Garona looked up at him, grey eyes luminous in the dim light. “Khadgar…”

“Yes?” Khadgar felt the lines of his body tense. In his youth, he’d been attracted to Garona. She had been strong, stubborn, and brilliant. Not a mage, never a mage, but nonetheless so determined to learn everything she could, like knowledge could be weapons to fling at her enemies from the darkness where she hid. He had acknowledged that in Jaina, in the alternate timeline Garona, but only here did the attraction stir again.

“Do you…” she hesitated. “Do you want to clean this library and talk?”

“Yes,” Khadgar said, and smiled. “I do.”

End


	31. Entry 31 - Overwatch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Choose two prompts previously featured in Site Write (a complete list of all eligible prompts is available at the link; free writes, finales, and repeats have been excluded). Write one single story that fulfills the strictures of both. Please be sure to note the individual prompts you’ve chosen to apply.
> 
> Chosen Prompts:  
> \- Write a short biography of your character in the style of a Homestuck introduction page.  
> \- Does your character have a mentor? If so, what was the most important thing she learned from them? If not, how did they learn their trade?  
> Fandom: Overwatch  
> Summary: An introduction for an Overwatch OC, Sibbarata

_ Sibbarata (Bard of Doom) _

 

Your name is SIBBARATA and you are an OMNIC. What this means in FUTURE-EARTH is that you are a ROBOT. Unlike many of your kind, you feel EMOTIONS and most of them are ANGER. You were not ALWAYS like this, or not quite so angry at least. You were taught by the great MONDATTA, a RELIGIOUS FIGURE who emerged after the first OMNIC CRISIS. Mondatta had a series of FOLLOWERS of which you, and his BROTHER, ZENYATTA, are two. He taught you how to EMBRACE your IDENTITY as an omnic, and believes in the IRIS that represents you SOUL. You followed him DEVOTEDLY, and did all you could to embrace his belief that humans and omnics are EQUALS, and that they can LIVE IN PEACE and HARMONY.

This changed, however, when Mondatta was ASSASSINATED by an AGENT from the terrorist organization known as TALON. You were PRESENT that day, but Mondatta’s brother was NOT, and you STILL HATE HIM for that, despite that being against your mentor’s BELIEFS. With Mondatta’s death, there is a SECOND OMNIC CRISIS in the offing, calling up members of OVERWATCH, those that ended the first crisis, and other unaffiliated ALLIES to BOTH sides of the crisis, including Zenyatta. You are determined not to allow another WAR to start, so you will JOIN them, mostly in defense of OTHER OMNICS rather than HUMANS whom you find to be COMPLETE ASSHOLES.

Your element is FIRE, which you are both capable of GENERATING and WIELDING. You were meant to be a portion of a FORGING CORE to be USED by humans to CREATE MORE OMNICS. Rather than making you MATERNAL, you have a penchant for DESTRUCTION, and wish to deal with your problems by APPLYING MORE FIRE. Your nature makes you ACCELERATED by AIR (Zenyatta) and SUPPORTED by EARTH (Mondatta), and are opposed by WATER. Your mentor wished for you to use your gifts to PRODUCTIVE ENDS, but you are not like him. You are not a HEALER, you are a WARRIOR, a DEFENDER of those in NEED, but the best defense is a good OFFENSE.

You have few INTERESTS outside of your initial purpose, and your new goal of AVENGING YOUR MASTER. You are aware that WIDOWMAKER of Talon is responsible for his death, but not who GAVE THE ORDER. You are on a QUEST to determine who that is, and then KILL THEM. Perhaps that will soothe your GUILT. You consider yourself an ALLY of all OMNICS, and an enemy of all ANTI-OMNIC HUMANS, though this distinction can become MUDDIED as LINES ARE DRAWN and BATTLES ARE FOUGHT.

Your COLOUR is RED, though you are also adorned in BRONZE and STEEL, as ALLOY METALS, and wear a similar NECKLACE to that of ZENYATTA, with the symbol of fire PRESSED INTO YOUR CHEST. You prefer not to SPEAK TO OTHERS, but when you do, your tone is short and clipped.


	32. Finale - WH40K

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Sift through some anthologies of English-language poetry. Seek out a handful of poems you want to return to, or choose old favorites. You should end up with five poems. One of these five lines will become your title. You can rescue pieces of the other four lines as you write your story—about someone trying to express a difficult thought.  
> Fandom: WarHammer 40K  
> Summary: Death is not the end, it is a place of rest for those who would know peace before they return to war.  
> \--  
> This is it! The final post! Thanks for reading.

The garden was perfect as could be imagined: the flower beds were full of large, silver flowers, their wide petals turned up towards the low, full moon that hung in the sky like a lantern, illuminating the rich, dark soil that peeked between plants. Each bed was lined with--

\-- _ should it be low fences? No, that seems unfriendly. I’ve seen it before, in books, on dataslates, there were pictures-- _

She sighed as she knelt against the hard, smooth stone. That was wrong too, but there was much yet to do. Behind her, there was a low building, with a slightly sloping roof, and a door, though no windows. A crypt did not have a need for windows. It was not a home. Not as people thought of one, though it was the only one she knew at the moment.

_ We’ll be together for some time, you and I,  _ she told the building.  _ I’m sure I’ll get you just right. _

There was no response, but her gaze was drawn to the moon. Its surface was silver and bright, not wholly like a true moon at all. It was too perfect, more like a platter, polished by diligent hands, than a celestial body. As she stared at it, images appeared: Horus, his expression creased with grief and anger; Belphegor, his expression drawn and haunted; Roboute, looking grave; Fulgrim, his dark eyes like holes rent in the white sheet of his face.

_ Yes, I am dead, my beloved ones,  _ Selene thought, reaching up as though she could touch them, comfort them in their grief.  _ I am beyond pain. I am beyond the sun. _

Something deep within her tugged towards the sight of the moon, the mournful faces. Something tired, something weary, held her back, and she was caught there, an insect suspended in amber. She closed her eyes, and the stars sang to her very soul.

_ You have heard the song-- how long! How long! _

“As long as I have to,” she whispered to the moon. “As long as it takes for me to be whole again.”

~ * ~

The garden was perfect as could be imagined: the flower beds were full of large, silver flowers, their wide petals turned up towards the low, full moon that hung in the sky like a lantern, illuminating the rich, dark soil that peeked between plants. Each bed was lined with wood, dark and thick, carefully delineating between rich, moist soil and soft grass.

She knelt down, running her fingers along the soil, seeking out any invasive plants, and found none. There was no purpose to it, no reason to create a world where the bad tried to strangle the good, to pull it down into the depths, to choke it until all of the good was gone.

_ I would keep them safe. I would always keep them safe.  _ The flowers were her children. Robbed of her Astartes, robbed of the ability to have a child and desperate with the need to nurture and preserve, the flowers were all she had here.

The flowers did not smell. They had no scent. They looked beautiful, and even felt soft and delicate, but they carried no perfume to her.  _ Or, perhaps, it’s me who can’t smell them, because I’ve never seen such flowers in person. _

It had been Lorgar who had told her of them. They were the flowers of Colchis, the rare blooms of the desert that only appeared after the torrential rains that came once a year, granting the thirsty desert desperately needed moisture. The silver flowers had bloomed everywhere, carpeting across the desert before being plucked up and turned into perfumes and potions, crushed underfoot during parades and celebrations.

_ And then it’s gone again, hidden beneath the depths as  _ _ the lone and level sands stretch far away.  _ She felt as the desert did, with strength hiding underneath the surface, waiting for the rains to come again. She leaned forward, rubbing her cheek against one of the petals.

From the moon came whispers. Cries of anguish, shouts of anger. Despair flooded her, a need to protect, to tend souls as she did flowers. There was a darkness that touched her deeply, seeping into the cracks of weakness created by the Dark Ones, robbing her of light.

_ I can’t. I can’t. _

~ * ~

The garden was perfect as could be imagined: the flower beds were full of large, silver flowers, their wide petals turned up towards the low, full moon that hung in the sky like a lantern, illuminating the rich, dark soil that peeked between plants. Each bed was lined with wood, dark and thick, carefully delineating between rich, moist soil and soft grass.

Behind her, the small cottage stood with door open, leading into a modest dwelling. It had a bed, cool as marble, and a desk. There was no kitchen -- the dead did not eat -- and the windows were framed by gauzy curtains that rippled on their own, without weather to move them.

The stars twinkled, bright as they sprinkled across the velvet-black of the night sky. When the moon was out, they seemed to fade to nothingness. With the eclipse, they shone, each a voice calling to her as she tended her flowers, plucking out weeds and setting them aside.

Blood was being shed in the name of a god that did not love and a truth that was a lie. A monster in a mitre, the crusade of a killer.

_ Help us. Come back. Save us from this. _

She wept softly, her tears falling onto the flowers, breathing in the scent of sweet flowers with each gasping sob. Her body shook, and her fingers dug into the soil, tearing it up, crushing it between her fingers.

_ Why can’t I go back? What is this feeling? Why is it so hard to return? Why deny me this? There is so much darkness. We have so much cruelty to turn away,  _ _ and we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet. _

She sniffled, squeezing her eyes closed, letting the tears slide off of her cheeks.  _ Please. Please. _

~ * ~

There was no garden. There was no home. There was no grass, no flowers, no stars. No bed to lay in, no curtains to flow and flicker. Instead, she was somewhere else entirely.

She was on the moon.

There was no air on this moon, but she did not need to breathe. There was nothing living on this moon, but she wasn’t alive either. Instead of seeing a moon hanging low in the sky, her vision was filled with the sight of a world. It was beautiful, green and blue, with white-grey clouds. It was serene, a perfect, pastoral image that warmed her heart.

A shadow moved over the world, a smudge on its perfection and suddenly, there was no world. The darkness spread, digging itself into the green like talons, raking the world open. It wept magma, it screamed steam. Its surface was riddled with a thousand cuts, destroying all.

She screamed. She screamed and she screamed until the breath she did not have ceased, until the tears she could not cry dried up. She fell against the lunar surface, beating her fists until she bled light.

_ We are the Dead. Short days ago we lived in ignorance. Darkness consumes all it touches, with no light to stand against it. Help us. Help us, hope. Help us, salvation. _

Within her, strength swelled, rising up to meet the demand, the desire of the living world that needed her as truly and sincerely as it ever had. She rose slowly, and then faster, hurtling towards the world and the darkness.

_ The sun has set, and the moon shall rise. In daylight, we were burnt by the fires of despair, but with night we banish sorrow. _

End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poems Used:  
> http://www.bartleby.com/101/866.html Rudyard Kipling, 866. L’Envoi.  
> http://www.bartleby.com/103/83.html John McCrae, 83. In Flanders Fields.  
> http://www.bartleby.com/106/246.html P. B. Shelley, CCXLVI. Ozymandias of Egypt  
> http://www.bartleby.com/101/495.html Robert Burns, 495. Auld Lang Syne  
> http://www.bartleby.com/106/52.html T. Heywood, LII. Pack, clouds, away, and welcome day.


End file.
